


Hey, Blackbird

by didsomeonesaybioshock



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Battle, Bunker, Character Death, Conflict, Cultural Differences, Cultural References, Everyone Fucking Dies, F/M, Fluff, Foreign Language, Grief/Mourning, I'll update this tag list as I go along, Language, Language Barrier, Past Character Death, References to Depression, Religion, Religious Conflict, Slow Burn, just kidding, not everyone.....
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-16
Updated: 2019-12-17
Packaged: 2021-02-26 18:01:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 69,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21812635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/didsomeonesaybioshock/pseuds/didsomeonesaybioshock
Summary: Fallon had never thought about what heaven looked like.She’d heard rumors, of course. Everyone’s heaven is how they make it. What you love, your passions, your idea of “home.” It all comes together in a final brew; a last ditch effort by the wicked witch himself to make your shitty years on Earth worth a damn.If there was such thing as heaven, Fallon figured she’d find out some day.Didn’t think it would happen this quick.
Relationships: Castiel/Original Female Character, Castiel/Original character, Jessica Moore & Sam Winchester
Kudos: 8





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This is a story that I haven't touched in over a year -- it currently clocks in at 75,000 words and is not close to being finished. I'm hoping if I post it, it will inspire me to actually finish it. I originally wrote this fic when season 13 was wrapping up, and I was super angry with how the plot line was progressing. This was my attempt to write a Supernatural plot that I felt the fans deserve.
> 
> This story has a lot of interesting elements -- I created my own religion, as well as my own iteration of the Bible. I also created my own language, which you won't see in the story yet but I will hopefully write soon. There are a LOT of new and diverse characters. 
> 
> Let me know your thoughts in the form of comments. Thanks for reading this!

Fallon had never thought about what heaven looked like.

She’d heard rumors, of course. Everyone’s heaven is how they make it. What you love, your passions, your idea of “home.” It all comes together in a final brew; a last ditch effort by the wicked witch himself to make your shitty years on Earth worth a damn. The “I’m sorry I ditched when you were a kid” present from your deadbeat dad. You’d be a fool not to take it, but it won’t change what he did. There’s nothing in the world that can make up for someone running out on you like that. 

Not like there was anyone watching out for the world, anyways.

There were demons, sure. Hell burns right and true beneath the world’s feet. Vampires? Plenty of them. Werewolves? Restless spirits? Banshees? Walk out into any woodsy area in the dead of night to find that one out yourself. You’ll be running out screaming with a monster at your heels. It isn’t fair, sure, but it’s just how the world works. Best to be on the safe side and carry silver with you. Maybe a machete, too. 

But whatever you do, don’t hit your knees to throw up a prayer and beg on some higher power to come pull you out of your jam. You’ll just get your arms tore off faster.

Fallon knew the truth. You kick the bucket, and you either end up a floating heap of misery or thrown into a black trench of nothing. 

After the life she’d lived, an eternity of sleep sounded pretty damn good. 

But, of course, nothing was certain. Nothing except death. For all she knew there’s a massive kegger going on up behind those pearly white gates, with Ben Franklin singing Shania Twain karaoke and Elvis Presley playing Edward Fourty-Hands while Cleopatra cheers him on. They could be missing out on the house party of a lifetime. Not that she believed that.

But, if there was such thing as heaven…

It would be a Tuesday morning. No; Friday, because it was always slower than molasses before noon. First of the month. She’d come pulling up to her old shop, throw open bay door three and breath in the familiar scent of rubber dipped in well-lubed oil. All the cars would be caught up, the garage sparkling like a god damn diamond. Johnny Cash’s “San Quentin” record would be turning on her old Crosley, the needle humming through the groves like it was greeting an old friend. The sun would barely peak out above the mountain and the town still tucked away in their beds. It was right about then that Fallon would roll up her sleeves, sling a shop towel over her shoulder and make her way to the only woman in the world that wouldn't ever run out on her.

Not like her Chevy could run without the keys in the ignition. 

And there she’d be, elbow-deep under the hood, her stomach full of cheap-diner pancakes and an ear full of Cash, surrounded by the only four walls that had ever felt like home. And she was damn proud of it. 

If there was such thing as heaven. Fallon figured she’d find out some day.

Didn’t think it would happen this quick. 


	2. Fallon

It was just like any other morning.

Fallon woke when the sun began to rise, peeking through the same ripped curtains she refused to replace. She stopped using an alarm clock a long time ago - no point when you sleep as light as she does. Her bare feet hit the stained carpet and she trudged into the bathroom, shaking out her old round-up t-shirt and un-bunching her boxers. She didn’t need to look in the mirror, but she did it out of habit. She knew what would stare back. The same mop of short blonde hair, same blood-shot eyes paired with the same dark bags underneath. Business as usual.

The shower head squealed to life, and she watched the stream of water turn from a murky brown to a hazy clear over the span of a few minutes. She should really get that fixed. But she stepped in anyways, scrubbing away the cold sweat from a restless nights sleep with an old bar of Dove soap. A quick shave under her arms always came last, skipping her legs all together and grabbing the towel from the shower rack outside the glass door. She’d shave them tomorrow.

Same half assed bun, same plain face. Her burgundy bandana barely held back all of the wild baby-hairs that always made an appearance as the day drug on. She sifted around the heaps of clothes cluttering her floor to find a plain t-shirt and her favorite pair of Wrangler jeans. Usually she’d find them easily. She knew her clutter better than anyone. Today, not so much.

“Shit,” she muttered. Everything was dirty. She resorted to the dirty clothes pile near the accordion door, pulling it apart one by one. She found her Wranglers and heaved a sigh of relief. They had quite a few grease stains on the legs, but were still salvageable. The shirts were a different story. The freckles around her lips twitched into a frown as she pulled on the jeans. “Forgot about the damn laundry.”

The closet door hinges screamed to life, reminding her of how little she actually used the storage space. It was simple; two racks lined with dozens of shirts she hadn’t worn since before 2010. Most of them probably didn’t fit anymore. Her fingers skimmed hanger after hanger before settling on a tight black shirt, the deep v-neck strung with dark shoelace strings. She pulled it from the rack and sighed, twisting the article one way then the other before untangling it from the hanger. It would have to work.

The shirt rested just above the edge of her pants, forcing her to wear a belt to look less naked. Her wardrobe malfunction had pushed her five minutes past schedule, which already making her freckled skin crawl. She slipped on her work boots and grabbed her keys from the kitchen table, pocketed her money clip and started for the door.

She stopped dead in the doorway, pivoting on her heels and making a bee-line back into the living room to the old entertainment center. She took a long, deep breath as her eyes met those familiar warm ones, staring back at her through the murky glass of an “I Love You” frame. Fallon wiped the grime away with the palm of her hand and put him back in his place, grabbing the white bandana draped in front of it. “Couldn’t ever forget about you,” Fallon wrapped the bandana around her right wrist and tied the knot with her teeth. Right where it belonged. “See you later, Pa.”

The crisp March air bit at her skin as she trotted to her truck, climbing into the cab and letting the door slam after her. The shocks creaked as she slid onto the bench seat, the engine roaring to life in the quiet of the morning as she pulled the shifter into reverse and backed out of the gravel driveway. She always appreciated the peace that came over South I Street as the sun came up. Mainly because no one was outside to wave at her. After all, the roar from the V8 engine in the F-100 was pretty recognizable.

Fallon had always been told that Lakeview suited her. A single caution light town with nothing but a Safeway and a tiny ass Subway to show for it. Hardly anybody lived there - the town population reached its peak of 6,000 in last month’s census, and foot traffic was minimal. Town was so small the movie theatre had to close down from the lack of business. Might have been because half of Lakeview’s population was too old to walk the three blocks to get there. Either way, place was practically a ghost town. Always had been. And that was just how Fallon liked it. Less people to see, fewer friends to have.

The rusted old “Jerry’s Diner” sign came into view over the roof of the bank and Fallon’s stomach growled as if on cue. It wasn’t a morning unless she had a stack of hot cakes fresh off the grill. She could practically feel her eyes sparkle at the thought. She’d park her truck in the same spot, sit at the same booth she’d sat at for the past nine years, drink the same coffee and eat the same food-

“You gotta be shittin’ me,” her eyebrows nearly flew off her face.

Her spot was taken.

By a Civic.

Fallon wanted to puke.

“Who the hell even owns a Civic in this god damn town,” she whipped the truck up next to the Honda, the cab lurching forward when she pumped the brakes. She all but ripped the ignition from the dash on her way out, muttering a few choice words under her breath.

 _Take a deep breath, Fallon,_ she coached herself, closing her eyes and sucking in air through her nose. _Just ‘cause some shmuck has your parking spot doesn’t mean the day is gonna be absolute shit._

She was optimistic until she pulled open the door.

No. Fucking. Way.

There, sitting in booth 18, was some suit and tie type. Drinking an orange juice. No doubt the owner of that god damn Civic. What the hell was going on here?

“Morning, Fallon,” Gretchen called from behind the counter, pulling Fallon from her trance. “Grab a table, I’ll have Derek get your order started.” Her eyes widened a bit when she caught sight of her shirt. “Lookin' good, Fal!”

“Yeah, yeah,” Fallon muttered.

Grab which table? Where the hell was she supposed to sit now? In what felt like an out-of-body experience, Fallon shuffled to a spot two booths down, watching the black tie sip his OJ like nothing was the matter. She slid into the bench facing him, letting her arms rest against the cool counter as she watched him. He must have felt her stare, because he looked up and dared to smile at her.

“Fine morning, isn’t it?” He held up his glass in a greeting motion. She offered no response. “Heard this diner serves the best hash-browns on the California-Oregon border and thought I’d see for myself.”

Fallon gave a nod. What did he expect her to say? Oh, yes sir, finest little China of diced up potatoes this little slice of heaven’s ever damn well seen! Her eyes threatened to roll. Probably expected her to say “yee-haw!” or something just as cliché.

“Coffee’s hot, Faye,” Gretchen slid out from behind the front counter, balancing his breakfast in one palm with a pitcher of juice in the other. “What, your legs broken this morning?”

“I’m goin’, I’m goin’,” Fallon muttered, prying herself from the bench and heading behind the counter. “Last time I checked, you’re the waitress ‘round here.”

Gretchen scoffed as she handed the man his plate. “And the last time I checked, I haven’t actually served you a meal since you showed back up in town.”

Fallon’s lip pulled at that. “Got me there.” The bitter aroma of cheap coffee grains calmed her nerves a bit as she poured her cup, offering a wave to Derek through the line window as she made her way back to the booth. She slid back in just as Gretchen waltzed up.

“Looks like someone got your booth,” Gretchen teased at her ear, punching her lightly in the arm as she passed.

Fallon glared at her over her shoulder. “Don’t remind me."

The suit hummed at his first bite of browns, his eyes closing as he chewed. “Now this, this was worth the stop.” He pointed at the plate with his fork. “They weren’t kidding when they said this place was the best.”

“We appreciate that, sir,” Gretchen called from the counter as she scrubbed at a plate. “We take pride in our work here.”

“As you should.” Fallon could feel his stare burning through her cheek as she studied her mug. “Have you ever had the Travelers Special?”

Fallon glanced up, her eye twitching. “A few times, yeah.”

“They’re something, aren’t they?”

She shrugged. “More of a hot cake fan, myself.”

“Faye,” Gretchen used Fallon’s middle name as a warning, lowering a plate to throw her a look. He paused before nodding.

“No argument here,” he nodded outside. “Is that truck yours?”

Her chestnut eyes darted towards the grill of her truck then back again. “Yeah, it is.”

His smile reminded her of the Grinch. “She’s a beauty. You fix her up yourself?”

“Had some help.”

“Was probably quite the project.” He took a long ass sip from his orange juice without dropping his gaze.

Fallon rolled her shoulders back. She didn’t come to Jerry’s Diner to make friends. She came here to eat. “Easy if you got a brain.”

“Food’s on, Fal,” Derek slid her plate onto the line and rang the bell. Gretchen threw daggers at her as she made her way behind the main counter.

“Could you be any more of a bitch?” Gretchen quipped. Fallon shrugged, grabbing her plate and loading up with butter. “You can’t treat every business man that rolls through town like he’s some Wall Street crook.”

“Who knows, could very well be,” Fallon may as well just taken the entire jug of syrup with how much she poured on. “Where I come from, you get shot if you ain't on your toes.”

Gretchen scoffed. “Like he’s gonna pull a gun on you,” she motioned around her. “At Jerry's diner.”

“World’s gone to hell, Gretchen,” Fallon chuckled to herself.

“Excuse me, waitress?” They both turned at the voice, the Wall Street crook now standing in front of the bar near the front door. He waved a couple twenties in the air. “I assume this will cover the meal?”

Fallon had to hand it to Gretchen; she was damn good at her job. She could slap a smile on her face quicker than a politician during a debate. “Oh yes, that is more than enough, thank you so much,” She headed for the register. “Would you like your change?”

“Keep the change,” his stare didn’t falter from Fallon as she spread her butter. “And split it with your friend here, too. Hopefully it’ll help with her little project out there.”

Fallon’s lips curled into a smirk. “Well, that’s mighty kind of you.”

He started for the door and bowed toward Gretchen as he stepped through. “You have a good day, now.”

“Safe travels, sir!” She called as he strode out towards his little commuter. Gretchen’s head spun back like she was in the Exorcist.

Fallon hummed Alan Jackson under her breath as she cleared booth 18, dumping his half-eaten hash-browns into the sink and dunking his orange juice along with it. Her plate clattered on the table top along with her mug as she slid into the booth, letting out a sigh as she settled. Seat was still warm. She sipped her coffee with a small smile.

“Fallon Faye Fawkes, why do you have to be like that?” Gretchen whined, slapping her towel onto the counter and crossing her arms. “Man was a broker from Los Angeles. Hell, what if he was my future husband?”

“Don’t sit in my booth,” Fallon shrugged, waving at the Civic as it pulled away. “Simple as that.”


	3. Fallon

There was nothing like the smell of the Junkyard on a Thursday morning.

It wasn’t the most glamorous nickname for her auto shop, but it was memorable. She’d hated it at first. Made it sound trashy. But it’d grown on her after a while. A term of endearment, as her regulars would say. Yeah, it was endearing, all right. So were the piles of scrap cars slowly building on the property. She told herself she’d get rid of them eventually, have those eye-sores towed to make way for paying customers. But that involved too much talking, one too many phone calls. She’d save it for another day. 

The shop had a lot of names. The Junkyard. Fallon’s. Southern O’s Scrap Experts. Not many people called it by its real name, “For Fawkes Sake,” but she didn’t even call it that anymore. The half-busted sign hanging above the bay doors was just a reminder of the old man that used to run the joint. 

But that was a long time ago. Now it was her burden, and she carried it with pride. 

She hardly had to put any effort into lifting Bay Three’s door as it rolled into itself, the amber-orange sunrise leaking into the garage like the watercolor paintings her grandma used to make. Only one car was left overnight: Billy Bob’s old Ford Mustang was holed up in Bay Two. She opened it up and cranked the engine, pulling it out front and parking next to a rusted Dodge Neon. She stuck the invoice in the wipers and headed back inside to start the usual routine.

Bay doors up, Crosley needle down. It was a Merle Haggard kind of day. Three folding chairs next to Bay One, the green plastic strips on the back faded from too much sun. Fire up the Hofmann geoliner in the back of Bay Four, check the alignment specs and re-adjust the cameras. Re-fill the dunk tank. Sweep the floor. Check the air tanks. Wipe down the socket wrenches. Re-stock the gloves. Lights came on last. She may be cold hearted, but nothing beat a warm sunrise over the Oregon mountains. She watched it as she tested the lifts, making sure they were running decent before she got any cars in the air.

It was closing in on 7:30 when she heard the familiar roar of a Subaru WRX coming up the road, pulling up in front of Bay Two before coming to a stop. She looked up from the dunk tank and narrowed her eyes. “What the hell is this,” Fallon killed the hose and started rolling it up. “Didn’t think you got up this early,” her drawl bounced off the walls as a scraggly frame climbed out of the driver’s side. “Is it Daylight Savings or somethin’?” 

“Very funny,” Grizz shut the door, twirling the keys around his index finger. “Thought I’d get an extra hour in today. My wallet is looking pretty sad these days.”

“Maybe that’s because you can’t get up before noon.”

“You’re such a grouch,” He threw the keys at her chest as she chuckled. “Fix my Subie.” 

“What the hell did ya do to it now?” Fallon threw the roll of hose into the back corner and headed out front. “I swear, if your bearings are already shot-“

“Brakes are squealing when I get up to speed,” He said. “Think the pads are bad again.”

“Maybe if you quit textin’ your girlfriend you’d see the stop signs sooner,” She wiggled the door handle a couple times before she finally pried it open. He needed to get those doors looked at. She climbed inside and revved up the engine, swinging it into the garage. 

“You know I don’t text and drive,” He leaned over the hood and watched her climb out of the car. “I’m a rebel, but I’m not stupid.”

“How about you and your rebel ass work on your own car?” She dropped the keys into the rusted tray welded into the floor. “Last time I checked, you were a mechanic here.” 

“Don’t trust myself,” he said.

“Never tell your boss that,” She stepped on the lift peddle and the car began to rise, making him jump. She snickered. “Can’t lose faith in the only Junkyard employee I got.”

“The only one you’ll ever have.” 

“Amen,” She nodded towards the back. “Now grab me a light. My eyes ain’t shit.”

Out of all the folks of Lakeview, Bear (she called him "Grizz") Ryker was probably the strangest. Not only did he have the dumbest name in the history of anything, but his parents were pretty fucking out there, too. Grew up outside of Hat Creek in a trailer near the waterfront. His father, named Marley, sold marijuana to anyone that could walk in a somewhat straight line. His momma Paisley made wreaths out of the forest and sold them to the local shops and houses around town. Pa had bought one once and hung it up above the fireplace. The house smelled like a Snoop Dogg concert for about a month. 

He wasn’t the type of person Fallon would usually associate with. Hell, nobody was her type of person. But Grizz had been in the right place at the right time, with hardly a penny to his name. She could still remember the look on his face when she handed him the invoice for his transmission replacement nine years ago, the way he’d spent an entire five minutes just to tell her “I can’t pay this.” She usually just kept the cars as payment, let them get off with a trade, but Grizz had an auto mechanic certificate from the local community college and Fallon needed a shop hand. It started off as a simple business arrangement. Nine years later, it was a full-on partnership. But Fallon was still his boss. 

“New shirt?” Grizz asked, handing her a brake pad. She scoffed.

“Yeah, all my t-shirts were dirty. Forgot to do laundry last night.”

“Shouldn’t have had that last beer,” he shook his head. She peaked her head out from under the car and gave a crooked smile.

“Somethin’ like that,” she waved her wrench at him and he smiled. “Can’t even remember the last time I looked in my closet. Leave most my shit on the floor.”

Grizz laughed. “Why do you insist leaving all of your clothes on the floor when your closet is half the size of my bedroom.”

Fallon dropped the brake pad. She paused before leaning down to pick it up. “Closet ain’t that big.”

“Your old man’s closet is huge."

“Don’t use that one,” Fallon said quickly, shoving her head back under the car. “Use the storage closet near the bedroom door.”

If Fallon had known better, she’d have thought Grizz walked away for how long he stayed quiet. She ducked her head out just to be sure. Nope, still there. “Fallon, you’ve cleaned out Al’s closet, right?”

Fallon returned back underneath the front end without answering.

“Fallon.” 

“Haven’t gotten to it yet,” She tossed the old brake pad towards the junk pile.

“Fallon, it’s been 13 years.”

“I wasn’t here for five of them.” 

“Eight isn’t any better,” he sighed, joining her under the car. She dropped her wrench, the tool clattering against the cement and ringing in her ears. “Fal, you have to move on.”

“I’m plenty moved on,” She bent down to pick up the wrench but was stopped by a hand gripping her wrist. Their eyes met and she looked away. 

“I can’t imagine what it was like losing your dad. Hell, my dad is trash, and I’d still be sad,” He ducked his head to try and meet her gaze. “But, Fal, Al wouldn’t want you to dwell like this. It isn’t healthy.”

“I said I’m fine,” she yanked her wrist from his grasp and grabbed the wrench. She stood up so fast she almost lodged her head in the front axle. “Quit worryin’ about me. I’m a grown ass woman and I can handle my shit.”

Grizz watched her for a minute from his crouch before crawling out from under the car, getting to his feet on the passenger side and brushing dust from his pants. “I’ll get more oil,” he muttered, his boot heels making a dull thud as he walked away.

She lifted her arm to her mouth and sniffed. 


	4. Fallon

Fallon always took break around 11:30, just before normal lunch hour. She trusted Grizz to run the shop at this point, but she didn’t like leaving him alone when it was busy. Boy got flustered real quick. And when he gets flustered, he forgets things. Basic things. Like shutting the hideaway door in the north wall that hides the safe. He’d gotten an earful after that one. 

Her lunch was always the same: a turkey and cheese sandwich with a large pink lemonade from Subway. After the inconvenience at Jerry’s that morning, she almost half expected her usual spot in the back corner to be taken by some muckraker. Her spirits lifted when she walked in to find the restaurant completely empty, save for Debbie and Jenn working the back counter.

Bingo. 

Her sandwich was done by the time she came through the door. She slid a ten across the counter toward Debbie and waved off the change, filling her drink and taking her place along the bench seat facing the door. She kicked her boots up on the opposite bench and let out a light sigh, biting into her sandwich and letting her eyes close. Perfect, just like always. 

“Busy today, Fallon?” Jenn called from over the counter, refilling the lettuce.

Fallon shrugged. “Ain’t bad,” Her voice came out muffled from a mouthful of sourdough bread. “It won’t pick up til’ the week of spring break.”

“How’s Bear?” Debbie sang from around the corner. Fallon couldn’t see her but she could practically picture her big lips revealing a row of chipmunk sized teeth. 

“Still useless,” she smirked. “Thinkin’ about giving him the boot, maybe hiring Ted Johnson’s kid as an understudy.”

“Oh, can it, Fallon. You’ll never get rid of Bear,” Jenn shook her tongs at her. “That boy could run off with your house deed and you’d still keep him around.”

“Ah, come on, we all know that wouldn’t happen,” Fallon waved her hand. “He's slower than Debbie running track in high school.”

“Hey, I had Osgood-Schlatter!” Debbie whined.

“He still seeing that one chick?” Jenn asked.

“Far as I know,” Fallon took a drink of her lemonade. “Hasn’t come crying to me yet, so all’s well from here.” 

“Such a weird couple,” Jenn said. “Does anyone else remember Stevie Rae from high school?”

“Grizz said she transferred here sophomore year.” 

“Not possible,” Debbie shook her head. “I never saw or heard of anyone by that name. And I knew everyone in high school.”

“Shut up, Deb, our graduating class had 100 people. Of course you knew everyone,” Jenn said. Debbie looked like Jenn had just kicked her rat dog. Fallon snorted. “But she’s right. Why would Stevie Rae lie about something like that?”

“Probably nervous about comin’ to a new town. Place small as this, she wanted to fit in better.” 

“Maybe.”

“What if she’s a vampire? Like the Cullen’s from Twilight,” Debbie giggled over her cutting board, her knife gliding through a fresh head of garlic. Fallon choked on a bite of her sandwich. “Hey, let’s send some of this garlic with Bear and see what happens.”

“There are no such thing as vampires,” It came out harsher than she meant it to. Both girls gaped at her like she was wearing a Pennywise costume. “She’s just a nervous out of towner wanting to fit in.”

“Damn, Fallon, didn’t think you were so passionate about the supernatural,” Jenn let the glass door close on top of the meats. “What, you get too spooked by a Dracula costume on Halloween?”

Fallon banged her knees underneath the table as she stood up, tossing her wrappers in the trash and refilling her cup. “Couldn’t care less about that shit,” She bypassed the lids and headed towards the door. 

“Come on, you have to at least believe in ghosts,” Donna chimed in. “Restless spirits? Avenging energies? Demons?”

Fallon stopped cold and threw her hands up. “If you wanna believe in dumb crap like that, go right ahead. I ain’t stoppin’ you,” She turned to face the counter. “But you listen here: don't go looking for that kind of shit."

“Alright, Ghostbuster, we’ll stay-“ Fallon was out the door before Jenn finished, climbing into her truck and slamming the door. She sat as still as a statue for a solid minute before starting the truck up with one question on her mind.

What the fuck was going on today?

The small cluster of buildings in town blurred past as she headed back to the shop. The shirt, the booth at Jerry’s, Debbie and Jenn at Subway; shit, even Grizz showing up early today. It was all so odd. Most days she could get by with hardly saying 40 words to anyone, and that included customers at the shop. Yeah, her and Grizz would shoot the bull during the day but that was normal. She was pretty sure the last time she’d had a full on conversation with Debbie and Jenn was at Pa’s service thirteen years ago. And it all started with that god damn dream…

Her knuckles turned white on the steering wheel and she shook her head. Nope. No dream talk. That’s what getting drunk was for. 

She breathed a sigh of relief at the sight of the shop, the front looking about as dead as she left it. She turned into the gravel driveway and started up the path until she saw Grizz in front of the bays, talking to a man in a leather jacket with his back to her. Another guy about two heads taller stood next to him, clad in a plaid shirt and a pair of faded blue jeans. She pulled up next to the chain link fence a hundred feet from the bays and threw the clutch in neutral, pulling the e-brake without taking her eyes off the strangers. Something wasn’t right about them. 

They had turned back to Grizz now, in some heated conversation about something. Her boots hit the gravel and she shut the cab, Subway cup in one hand and her keys in the other. It was like time slowed down the second her eyes hit the car parked in front of Bay Four. 

Her drink hit the gravel. 

The three boys turned to face her. Grizz’ face screwed up. “Hey, Fallon, you good?” 

The too-tall Barbie ran a hand through his flowing locks and studied her like she was a god damn science experiment. Leather jacket’s Ken-doll lips parted like he wanted to say something but thought better. For what felt like ten years she just stared at the car, then back at the men, then back to the car. She could feel the gears turning in her head. The freckles around her lips twitched as she stormed over.

“What’s goin’ on here?” Her voice came out deeper than usual. If that was even possible. The strangers cleared a space between them to give her room but she ignored them, posting up on Grizz’s side instead. 

“This is Fallon Fawkes, the shop owner,” He nodded towards them. “Fallon, this is Agent Griggs and Althouse from the FBI.”

Barbie extended his arm. “It’s a pleasure to-“

“Got any identification? Or do the Feds not hand those out anymore?” She crossed her arms. 

“Fallon,” Grizz rolled his eyes. “They already showed me. They’re legit.”

“It’s alright,” Ken held up his hand before searching through his jacket pocket. Barbie retrieved his from his jeans. “Can’t be too careful these days, am I right?” 

Fallon said nothing as she snatched the badges, studying each one like they had the answers to life on it. 

You could cut the tension in the air with a butter knife. Barbie coughed. According to their “badges,” Ken-doll was Althouse and Barbie was Griggs. She stifled a laugh and all but tossed the badges back at them. “Now tell me, ‘agents,’” she hooked her thumbs into her belt loops. “What the hell are a couple of feds doing in Hickville USA, dressed as lumberjacks and driving around a 67’ Chevy Impala Sport Sedan?” 

“We’re looking into the disappearances at the old OIT campus in Klamath Falls,” Agent Griggs tucked his badge back into his pocket. “Six males have gone missing in the last two months. Our last lead brought us here.”

“What the hell’s that got to do with my shop?” 

“Three of ‘em were customers of yours,” Agent Althouse reached into his jacket and handed her an invoice. Her invoice. “Most recent one was three nights ago. Name was Ryan Virgil.”

She took a look at the invoice and scoffed. “That’s a real sad story and all but we don’t know anything. News travels fast in this town and no one’s said one word about killings at OIT.”

“That’s not what he said,” Althouse nodded towards Grizz.

Fallon damn near threw out her neck when she turned towards him. 

“What the hell’s he talking about?” Fallon asked Grizz.

“I, uh,” Grizz rubbed the back of his neck. “I may have mentioned something to Ryan about the murders at OIT when I rotated his tires.”

She had to hold her fist back from socking him. “You did what now?”

“I didn’t think he’d actually go check it out!” Grizz said, "It's just small-town gossip. Harmless."

“You sorry son of a-“ She kicked the rocks with the heel of her boot. “Grizz, you sent that fool to his grave. Probably some god damn serial killer or something hanging out there.”

“I don’t think it’s a serial killer,” Grizz argued. “These agents, they agree with me. They think it might be... something else.”

Fallon didn’t think her eyes could get any wider. They did. “I’m gonna stop you right there before you make yourself look more like a fool. If that’s even possible.” 

“Fallon-“

“Can it. I don’t care,” She held up her hand. “I ain’t paying you to stand around to swap ghost stories with the feds.”

“Ms. Fawkes, please, we aren’t trying to get Bear in trouble,” Griggs argued. “We just want to find out what happened to these men.”

“We just want to get ‘em back home safe,” Althouse added. “Besides, it’s probably not good for business if all your clients go missing.” 

Her stomach dropped. Fallon jerked her head in his direction. “What the fuck did you just say to me?”

His eyes darted around like a bouncy ball. “I didn’t mean anything by it-“

“Get the hell off my property,” She was in his face now, her teeth clenched. “And don’t come back.”

“We’re sorry,” Griggs grabbed the other agent’s arm and tugged him towards the Impala. “We’ll leave.”

They offered a wave towards Grizz before they retreated. She didn’t move from her spot, watching the wheels turn on the sedan as it rolled down the drive. She met Althouse’s eye from the passenger window and ground her jaw. He quickly looked away. 

It wasn’t until they turned onto main and were out of sight that Grizz spoke. “Fallon-“

“Just go sweep up the bays,” Fallon said over her shoulder. She sighed. “And don’t ever bring this up again.”

He paused. “Yes, ma’am.”

His footsteps slowly faded as he walked away. Fallon continued to stare at the road, her body suddenly feeling a thousand pounds. She needed to sit down.

She needed to think.

~~

Fallon sent Grizz home early. 

The shop was slow and she knew Thursday night was him and Stevie Rae’s “date night.” It’d been that way for several months, since they’d started dating. Besides, she was sick of the tense air that coated the bays like one of Farmer Johnson’s handmade wool blankets. It made her sick. 

“You sure?” He’d asked, throwing on his Patagonia windbreaker hanging in the back. She’d waved at him. 

“Yeah, yeah I’m sure. Go take Stevie Rae somewhere nice,” Her smirk felt stiff, her lips hardly keeping hold of it. “I’ll see ya tomorrow.”

His hazel eyes had studied her for what felt like years. He always did that whenever he left. His lips would move like he was gonna say something but would stop before it began. He just sighed and smiled. “Goodnight, Falcon."

“’Night, Grizz.” 

She stood in Bay Two for a few minutes after he left, staring at the cement floor like she was waiting for it to sprout wings and fly away. She wished she could. Fly somewhere far away where she could finally just be left alone. Just her and her car, an endless supply of beer and enough pancakes to to last a lifetime. But that wasn’t an option right now. It wouldn’t ever be an option. 

Instead she hit the button to lift up Bay Two’s platform hip height and shimmied onto it, her elbows hitting her thighs and her head hitting her hands. Her eyes stung. The white bandana around her wrist suddenly felt too tight. She brought it to her face and breathed in its musty scent. 

“What do I do, Pa?” Her voice cracked. “What the hell do I do?”

She didn’t know why she was asking. She knew what had to happen. Ken-doll’s words played over and over again like that Tammy Wynette record she cracked last year. They bounced off the sides of her skull and echoed in her ears. _It’s probably not good for business if all your clients go missing._ It wasn’t the remark itself that had dented her mood. Hell, he could have told her the place should be condemned and she probably wouldn’t bat an eye. 

She’d heard it before.

No, it wasn’t some case of deja-vu that made her think twice if she’d been there once or twice. She’d literally heard him say that. In her dream. Same voice, same remark, same snarky attitude. It was like someone rewound a DVD within her mind and pressed play. And no matter how many times she tried to play it off, it wasn’t going away this time.

Fallon had to find them. 

She had the shop doors locked up the second 6:00 hit, her truck already running out in the front. The sun was just barely beginning to set over the mountain range as she turned out of the driveway. She figured it’d still barely be lit by the time she’d finish the two hour ride to Klamath Falls. Johnny Cash’s throaty voice droned on the radio and she cranked up the dial til the floorboard vibrated beneath her feet. The fire of the sunset burned in her eyes as she shifted into fourth gear, the “Welcome to Lakeview” sign blurring in her rearview mirror. 

_You can run on for a long time, run on for a long time;_

_Run on for a long time;_

_Sooner or later, God’ll cut you down;_

_Sooner or later, God’ll cut you down._

There were at least a dozen motels in Klamath to choose from. The old OIT campus was somewhere on Old Fort Road near the outer edge of town, so she figured they’d be staying somewhere close by. Motels were cheaper out there, anyway. She stopped by the Klamath Travel Inn first, up closer to Terminal City. She didn’t even need to pull into the parking lot to know it wasn’t right.

Next was America’s Best Value Inn. She combed through the parking lot for any sign of that old Impala but found nothing. She knew she was getting closer. The Super 8 down the block came up empty, too. 

Little needles were pricking the length of her arms as she rumbled into the A-1 Budget Motel. She didn’t even have to see their Chevy to know it was the right place: it was the same motel she'd seen in that fucking dream. She pulled into an empty spot near the entrance and passed right by the front office, her footsteps echoing off the walls under the yellow lights. Two old guys shared a stogie from their chairs in an empty parking space and watched her pass. She didn’t even realize what room she was looking for until her body came to a stop in front of one in particular. 

Her fist thudded against the wood right under the number “44.”


	5. Castiel

Castiel sighed as he glanced down at his cell phone. 6:28. He shoved the device into the pocket of his black slacks and leaned back into the bus stop bench seat. Dean was late. Again. He never understood how someone who drove so recklessly was always late to nearly every rendezvous point. 

He had seen many places and traveled across the world. But the state of Oregon was one that still remained mysterious. He had been there only once before, years ago when he had journeyed to the town of Grants Pass to search for Eve with the Winchesters and Bobby Singer. He did not think it could get much smaller than Grants Pass. 

Then he visited Klamath Falls. 

Despite the close proximity and the very interesting collection of inhabitants, Cas couldn’t help but enjoy the quaint nature of Oregon cities. The few local shops near the center of town were bustling with families, children running the lengths of the sidewalks in the orange glow of the sunset. Their laughter blanketed the street with their warm tones and a promise for the future. He couldn’t help but smile as they passed. Families waved at one another as they walked to their vehicles. The restaurant across the street hummed with activity, the candlelight dancing on the tabletops as couples conversed with one another. It was very peaceful. 

The clock tower a few blocks away chimed six times, reminding Cas of what, and who, he was waiting for. It was times like this he wished he had the use of his wings. He could simply fly to the location of the Winchesters. But that was a long time ago. The only method of transportation he used lately was the backseat of Dean’s car. 

They had left to follow a lead in a town a few hours away, leaving Cas behind to question the family of one of the victim’s that lived near the edge of downtown Klamath: a man named Kayden. The family, of course, knew nothing, as he thought they would. The last the family had seen their son was four weeks prior, when he’d left one night to have dinner with his girlfriend. The next thing they knew she was banging on their door at 2 a.m., sobbing that Kayden had “vanished.” There was still no sign of a body, which added to their distress. Humans crave closure. They would continue to be in distress until their investigation was complete. 

He lifted his head at the distinct rumble of a car engine, huffing out a breath of air as the brothers came pulling up to the bus stop. Dean rolled the passenger side window down and patted the outside of the door.

“C’mon, Cas, let’s go. I’m starvin’ here,” he said as Cas climbed into the backseat. He shut the door and rolled his eyes.

“I have been sitting here for almost an hour. You said to meet at this location at 5:30.”

“Well, we would’ve been here on time if someone didn’t need to stop and piss every twenty miles.” 

“Hey, I had a kale smoothie for lunch,” Sam glanced behind him before pulling from the curb. “You know that goes right through me.”

“That’s what you get for drinking grass,” Dean shuddered. “You’re not a goat, Sam. Eat a burger once in a while.”

“Did you find anything out?” Cas leaned toward the middle of the car to glance at Dean. 

“Nada,” Dean wiped his nose with the back of his hand. Cas made a face. “Just that people in Lakeview are assholes and that the diner there has damn good hashbrowns.”

“Is that why you were so late? Because you were eating at a diner?” 

Dean turned toward Cas and smiled. “A guy’s gotta eat.”

“We went to that auto shop that was on the invoice we found in the last victim’s car,” Sam glanced at Cas through the rear view mirror. “The mechanic there said he had heard of the disappearances but didn’t know what the three men had in common.”

“Yeah, and the shop owner was a bitch,” Dean crossed his arms. “Hot as hell, but definitely a bitch.”

“She wasn’t a ‘bitch’, Dean,” Sam sighed. “Just, not the friendliest.”

“Could’ve been nicer,” The eldest Winchester smirked. “After all, she was talking to agents of the FBI.”

“I honestly don’t think she believed us,” Sam thought aloud. “Did you see the way she looked at us when she gave us back our badges?”

Dean scoffed. “You mean when she threw us back our badges?”

“The owner of the shop did not believe your illegally obtained federal identification?” Cas’ head tilted to the side and his eyes narrowed. Dean looked back at him and rolled his eyes. 

“Shut up, Cas.” 

“And did you see how she acted when Bear even hinted at the possibility of ghosts?” Sam turned into a small restaurant on the side of the road. Only half of the bulbs on the sign outside reflected any sort of light. “It was like the idea of it being related to the paranormal was enough to turn her entire world upside down.”

“What kind of name is Bear, anyway?” Dean already had his seatbelt unbuckled by the time the car came to a stop. “Some kind of flower child title?”

“So the woman she was a skeptic,” Cas concluded, Dean already halfway out of the car. 

“Maybe,” The younger brother retrieved the keys from the ignition and climbed out alongside Cas, trailing behind a very persistent Winchester whose mind was no doubt consumed by the thought of cherry pie. “Or maybe she knew exactly what it was and just didn’t want to say anything.”

“We should go back and question her further.”

“Not sure that’s a good idea,” They pushed through the smudged glass of the front door and found an empty booth near the back corner. Cas watched as Dean traded flirty banter with the blonde waitress at the front counter, his fingertips drumming against the wood as he leaned toward her. It seemed personal space was only an issue when Cas was involved. “We didn’t leave on the best terms. I don’t think she’d appreciate seeing us again.”

“It does not hurt to try,” Cas said. “We have no other leads beside this one. I suggest we pursue it.”

“Let’s sleep on it. We can always try tomorrow,” Sam let his forearms rest on the table. “Besides, I think her shop closed at 6. She probably won’t be there.”

“Then we find her home,” Cas leaned toward him. “The being only strikes at night. Another victim could be lost if we wait.”

“How about this? We sit for a bit; let Dean get eat his pie,” Cas huffed. “We still need to check into the motel before 8. We’ll unload our stuff and make some calls. See if Agent Griggs and Althouse can’t pull some strings at the Lakeview Police Department. Sound good?”

Cas sighed, lolling his head to the side. “I suppose it’s all we can do.”

Dean came bouncing back toward the table like a small child at the playground. He shoved Cas to the side and slid into the booth, tossing a ripped piece of paper napkin near the center of the table. “Guess who just scored a hot Oregon local?” He wagged his eyebrows. “Looks like I’ll be gettin’ busy tonight.”

How were these the brothers that stopped Armageddon? 

~~

It was nearing twilight by the time they arrive at the motel. It was a rundown little thing: a few older model vehicles and two elderly gentlemen sat in the parking lot, the men setting up two lawn chairs on the pavement. One of them lit the end of a cigar and took a long drag before handing it off to the other. He watched them while Sam went into the front office to check into their room. Dean was leaned against the passenger door typing something into his phone with a smirk.

“Why are you looking at your phone like that?”

Dean Winchester giggled like a schoolgirl. “Texting that hot waitress from the diner,” He glanced up at him from his phone. “Think I could pass for 29?”

Cas crossed his arms. “I don’t think you could pass for 40.”

Dean’s nose scrunched and he opened his mouth before he was interrupted by Sam. “Alright, got the room.” Cas smiled in triumph and turned to Sam. He could feel Dean glare at him through his peripheral vision. “It’s a little further down the parking lot, towards the back.”

Dean finish tapping at his phone screen before pocketing the device and opening the trunk. “Hurry up, I gotta shower before meeting up with Kat.”

Sam laughed, his brown hair shifting from side to side. “You’re seriously meeting up with that waitress? Tonight?”

“Why the hell not?” 

“Because Dean, we’re in the middle-“ He sighed. “Nevermind. Go have fun.”

His forest green eyes lit up brighter than a Christmas tree. He held his hands out toward his brother. “Room key?”

The metal clinked together as they hit the calluses of his palm. “Room 44.”

“Thank you very much,” Dean performed a light jog toward the rear of the parking lot, the items in his duffle back hitting him in the back. Sam watched for a moment before scoffing.

“Like we’re still in our twenties,” Sam muttered, retrieving his own bag and slamming the trunk closed.

The motel room was small and smelled of an abandoned antique trundle. Two medium sized beds sat parallel to one another against the south wall, separated by a small night stand in between. The King James version of the Bible sat proudly atop the mahogany wood. The soft leather of the cover was torn at the edges. Sam threw his bag on top of the farther mattress and Cas shut the door behind him.

“Alright,” Sam rifled around his luggage and displayed his laptop, crossing to the table in front of the window and taking a seat. Dean’s vocal rendition of a Metallica song accompanied the spray of the shower. “So far, no bodies have been recovered, and there’s no evidence of where the victims could have been taken.”

“And the families know nothing,” Cas sat across from him.

“And it looks like the ghost-er, whatever it is,” Sam began typing on his laptop. “Is only interested in males. None of the wives or girlfriends were taken in any case.”

“And there’s no connections between the disappearances.”

“Except the three that all had their cars done at that auto shop,” His neck rolled from side to side. “Because Bear had told them about the kidnappings.” 

“So he has been sending men to the campus ruins?” 

“Not quite. I don’t think he’s doing it on purpose,” Both flinched at a particularly high note from Dean. “I think he’s just curious about the supernatural. Probably tells his customers since his boss won’t have any of it.”

“So, in other words, we have nothing,” Cas collapsed deep into the chair.

“Well, I mean-“ Sam shrugged. “Yeah, pretty much I guess.”

“I do not like being back on the writing board.”

Sam glanced at him from over his laptop screen and chuckled. “The drawing board.”

Cas huffed. “How is drawing going to help us stop this entity?”

“Maybe if you looked at the big picture we could figure this shit out,” Dean emerged through a cloud of steam, taking a towel to his hair and holding another around his waist. 

Sam turned. “Does this ‘big picture’ you’re talking about involve a certain waitress at a certain diner?”

He wagged his eyebrows. “She’s got a big somethin’, that’s for sure.”

Sam started to respond before a loud knock cut him off. The trio turned toward the door and exchanged glances. 

A grin crept over Dean’s freshly shaved shaved. “Looks like Kat’s a little early. Lucky me.”

“Go put some pants on.” Sam waved him off and Dean made a face. He snagged a pair of worn jeans from his bag before retreating to the bathroom. The younger brother went to the door and peered through the peephole before leaning back. His eyes were wide.

“Sam?” Cas shifted in his chair. His shoulders stiffened and his hand clasped the back of his seat.

“Guess we don’t need to make those calls,” Sam muttered before pulling open the door. “Ms. Fawkes, how did-“

“Can it, ‘agent’,” A blonde woman shoved passed him and into the motel room, a few clumps of mud scattering along the drab grey of the carpet. “Don’t bother with your formal FBI bullshit.”

Dean emerged from the bathroom doorway, his boy-like features quickly fading into one of despair. “You’re not Kat.”

“Do I look like my name is somethin’ as basic as ‘Kat’?” She crossed her arms across her chest, her hip cocked to the right. “My Pa had a lil’ more spunk than that.”

This was the woman from the auto shop.

Sam let the door shut behind him. “How did you know where we were staying?”

“Looked for the sleaziest motel Klamath had to offer and let basic intuition do the rest.” 

“Hey, I think this motel is pretty decent, thank you very much,” Dean huffed.

“You got some mighty low standards for a fed, then.” 

“Ms. Fawkes,” Sam cleared his throat, making his way to stand near Dean. “What are you doing here?”

“First of all, I ain’t some suburban mom in line at Starbucks. It’s Fallon.” Fallon. “Second, how about Abercrombie and Dick over there throws on a shirt before we have a conversation.”

“What, you getting distracted?” Dean asked. 

“Boy, you better-“

“Dean,” Sam warned. The brother sighed before sulking to his duffle bag to find suitable attire. “Fallon, we wanted to apologize for earlier. We didn’t mean t-“

“Imma stop ya right there, Barbie,” She held up her palm and Sam furrowed his brow. “I know neither of you are feds, so you can go ahead and drop the act.” 

Cas rose from his chair. 

“You came all this way to tell us we’re lying?” Dean pulled a shirt over his head. “We showed you our badges. What else do you want from us?”

“Speaking of those badges, you should probably head on back to the Kinko’s you made them at and get a refund,” Fallon reached into her back pocket and tossed a similar black pouch at Sam. “Your ID pictures look like they’re from the 1920’s.”

Dean glanced over Sam’s shoulder as he flipped open the pouch and studied its contents. All color drained from their cheeks. 

“No shit,” Dean muttered.

Sam’s Adam’s apple bobbed as looked up from the badge. “You’re a hunter?“

“Was,” Fallon held out her hand, taking the fake FBI badge back. “Was being the key term, there.”

Cas’ eyes darted from Fallon back to the boys then back again. This was not how he thought this night would turn out. 

“So, if you’re a hunter, how’d you not know about the OIT case?”

“Are you even listening to a word I’m saying?” Fallon pocketed her badge and placed her hands on her hips. “I _was_ a hunter. Was. I don’t hunt anymore. When shit like that happens I steer clear.”

“If there’s one thing we know better than anyone, it’s that retiring from hunting isn’t an option,” Dean said. “Never ends good.”

“Well, I was doing just fine,” Fallon shrugged. “’Till you clowns showed up in my driveway.”

“Best looking clowns you’ve ever seen,” Dean muttered.

“Look, I didn’t come here to shoot the shit with y’all about the lavish hunting lifestyle,” She stepped towards them. “I came here to tell you to quit talking to Grizz about this supernatural crap.”

Sam cleared his throat. “You mean Bear?”

“Bear, Grizz, still talking about the same scrawny little kid,” A few strands of her sandy blonde hair fell in whisps around her face, swaying slightly beneath her burgundy headband. “He’s curious. Always has been. Thinks the paranormal stuff is ‘dope,’ or whatever. And you coming by to ask him about OIT isn’t helping. The last thing I need is the only guy I trust to work my lifts running off into the Modoc woods to chase wendigos.”

“I dunno, we could use an extra hand,” Dean shrugged. “Wendigos aren’t going extinct anytime soon.”

Fallon blinked before pointing a finger at him. “Listen here. Stay the hell away from Grizz. Don’t drag him into this life,” her stare darted to the ground. “Go interrogate someone else about OIT.”

“We weren’t trying to recruit Bear as a hunter,” Sam said. "We just needed information."

“Yeah, well, he doesn’t know shit,” She scuffed the toe of her boot against the carpet. “Kid just has a big mouth, is all.”

Cas spoke up. “So there is no possibility that Bear has any information about the disappearances whatsoever?” 

It was his turn to receive her glare. Fallon scoffed. “So Inspector Gadget can speak. What are you, some kind of dick-in-training?”

His lips pursed. “My name is Castiel. I am an Angel of the Lord.”

“Cas,” Sam sighed. 

Her laugh ricochet off the periwinkle walls around them. “Yeah, right. Angel’s don’t exist.”

“Damn, I remember those days,” Dean shook his head. “Kinda miss being that blind.”

“There’s no such thing,” She crossed her arms and bobbed her head in time with her words. “God, angels, heaven? All a sham.”

“Heaven is very much alive, Fallon,” Cas stood tall. “God created all that is here. Including me. Including you.”

“I’ve read the Bible, and not once does it mention the ‘warriors of our Father’ prancing around as accountants caught in a rainstorm.”

“This is a vessel,” His voice rose in volume. “It is not my true form.”

“Cas-“ Sam began. Cas’ eyes never left Fallon's.

“Oh, alright then, ‘Castiel,’” Again with the air quotes. He clenched his jaw. “If you’re supossed to be some angel, where’re your wings? Far as I can tell-“

With a clench of his fists and a push of his grace, a shadow of his wings ejected from his vessel’s back and against the window of the room. While they rendered useless for transportation he still carried them with him, a constant reminder of what he was once was and who he at one time resembled. Many of the feathers were burned and withered, the appendages themselves bent near the ends as a result of his fall. They were not what they used to be. Yet they remained. And although it was rare for any human to possess the ability to perceive an angel’s wings, his true form, many times the mere shadow of their existence was enough to invoke belief. Judging by the gape in her stare and the parting of her lips, he assumed they did not fail him this time, either. 

Those parted lips soundlessly moved over inaudible syllables for a few moments before she finally spoke. “Well, alrighty, then,” She hesitated before turning to face the Winchester’s. Her right hand came up to rub the back of her neck. “It’s gettin’ late and I still gotta head back to town,” She shoved her hands into her pocket and cocked her head up toward Sam. “Don’t, uh, forget what I told you.”

Sam nodded. “We won’t,” He emitted a sound and grabbed the motel notepad from the nightstand, scribbling something on it. “By the way, um, here’s my phone number. If you hear anything. Or need anything.” 

Fallon stared at the piece of paper like it was an active grenade. She took it and read his writing, nodding with pursed lips. “Yeah, whatever. Never know, I guess.”

“Here, I’ll get the door.” Sam stepped in front of her and turned the knob. Cas stepped out of the way and toward Dean, who was still staring at him with doe-like eyes. “Drive safe,” Sam called after her, her boots thudding through the parking lot into the dark of the night. They watched for a moment before Sam shut the door, slowly turning back toward them.

“Wow.” He muttered.

“Wow is right,” Dean sighed. “Well, that went about the opposite of what I expected it to.”

“A retired hunter,” Sam shook his head. “How many times have we seen that pan out?”

“Try none,” Dean made a turn to the bathroom once more. “I’ll give it to her, though, she’s sure got the typical bitter hunter attitude down to a T.”

Cas peered toward out the window as Sam sat down at the table, opening his laptop again. The faucet spurted water as Dean brushed his teeth. Fallon climbed into the cab of her pickup truck and started the ignition, the engine rumbling in his ears like he was sitting right next to it. Her taillights shone like crimson stars as they faded from his view. He shoved his hands into the pocket of his coat and tilted his head. 

Who was Fallon Fawkes?


	6. Castiel

The sun was just peaking over the horizon by the time Cas made it back to the motel. 

The room was cramped, and felt even more so while everyone was asleep. He preferred the crisp breeze of the morning breeze to the stale air that floated between four aged walls. It helped settle his mind, helped him sort through the facts of the case and decipher what needed to be done next.

As well as other things.

Sleep was unnecessary for an angel. The body they inhabited was not their own, and therefore relinquished most human traits that their original inhabiter possessed. One of which was the need to rest. It was one of the most perplexing things about humanity in Castiel’s eyes. Why his Father decided that a human being was to spend half of their existence training their bodies for the inevitable eternal slumber was beyond his comprehension. It seemed too much like a waste of time. Even during his short and unpleasant time as a human himself, he could not embrace the idea of a good night’s rest. Although he did come to the understanding that humans were far from functional with little sleep. Dean was proof enough of that. 

He passed by the front office, the room empty save for a middle age woman behind the counter. She peeked up over her computer screen at the sign of movement and offered a smile. He waved back. His fingers found the spare key deep in his pocket as he made his way back to the room. Sam was wide awake, as usual, wiping sweat from his face with a towel.

“Morning, Cas,” He smiled, his neck thumping faint but quickly at the pulse point of his neck. He spoke between shallow pants of air. “Have a good walk?”

“Good morning, Sam,” Cas nodded. He took a seat at the table where with his back to Dean’s bed. “I had heard from a few of my brothers over the years that the country side is very peaceful during the sunrise hour.”

Sam huffed out a breath in agreement, running the towel through his hair. “What’s your take on it?”

The corner of Cas’ lip rose slightly. “It is quite beautiful.”

“Yeah, no argument here,” Sam collapsed onto the edge of his bed and let his head hang between his shoulders. “I’ve only been here a handful of times, but it’s one state I don’t forget.” His fingers trembled slightly through his hair. “Almost went to University of Oregon instead of Stanford.”

“For law school.”

“Yeah,” his elbows rested on his knees and his fingers clasped in between. “Oregon has a great law school program. Not as good as Stanford, but it’s damn close.”

“What made you choose Stanford instead?”

Sam chuckled and shook his head. “Dunno. Honestly I look back and remember wanting to go to Oregon way more than Stanford,” He sighed. “But something inside me said to move to California. So I did.”

Cas nodded. “Do you regret it?”

The younger Winchester stared at the wall. “Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if I’d gone to Oregon. If things would have been different,” He stood up from the bed and fiddled with the towel. “If maybe by coming here instead, I would have saved more people. And maybe Jess would...“ His voice died out. “If she’d never met me, she’d still be alive.”

“Azazel had already left his mark on you,” Cas shook his head. “He would have just hurt someone else you were close to.”

“Yeah, but it wouldn’t have been Jess,” He threw the towel into the corner with a little more force than necessary. “Cas, did-did you ever see her?”

The angel tilted his head. “What do you mean?”

“In heaven,” Sam turned to look down at him. “Do you know if she made it there okay?”

Cas turned his gaze toward the ceiling. “Jessica Lee Moore,” He thought aloud. Sam’s lip twitched. “Before my fall from heaven, I did not have many opportunities to explore the vaults of souls that had retired there. My time was otherwise occupied by tasks and duties assigned to me by what I perceived to be God,” He closed his eyes. “Before Zachariah and the apocalypse, I never had an invested interest in the fate of humans after death.” His gaze shifted toward Sam.  “But that changed once I found you and your brother.”

Sam’s breathing quickened slightly and his lips parted.

“She’s resting comfortably, Sam,” He smiled at his friend. “She is at peace within her corner of heaven.”

A single tear slid down the cut of Sam’s cheekbone, his hand wiping it away as quickly as it had fallen. He sniffed before letting out small laugh. “That’s good to hear,” He nodded and smiled. “Thanks, Cas.”

He nodded as Sam hurried into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him and turning the lock. Cas continued to sit at the foot of the bed, staring at the dark television while his mind projected his memories across the blank screen. The smell of fresh cut grass on a mid-summer’s afternoon. The sky casting a vibrant shade of blue against the warmth of the sun, a few pillows of clouds scattered across its surface. A cherry red blanket laid out beneath a willow tree, a light breeze blowing its leaves every which way. A wicker picnic basket forgotten off to the side. A head of blonde curls laid out against the blanket, her laughter ringing out sweetly through the air. And a boy, his long limbs sprawled out beside her, their hands entwined while he pointed out different shapes of clouds with the other.Every now and then he’d glance at her, the same eyes that had seen so much pain and anger his entire childhood now drinking in the most joy he had ever felt like a man starved of water. 

Cas never mentioned the sounds of heartbreak that floated from under the bathroom door.

~~

They finally heard from Dean closer to nine. The older brother hadn’t returned to the room from the night before. It wasn’t until 8:45 that Sam’s phone vibrated against the hood of the Impala. 

“Dean, where the hell are you?” Sam asked. Cas adjusted himself next to Sam, shifting from one foot to the other against the hood of the car. He could not hear Dean, but he had a decent idea of what he was saying.

“Alright, we’ll be there in ten,” He hung up the phone and sighed. “He’s back at that diner we went to last night.”

“The waitress,” Cas confirmed. 

Sam nodded. “C’mon, let’s go get him before he runs off again.” 

They had decided earlier that morning to look around the OIT campus once they had found Dean. It was possible they had missed something during their first look through the ruins. Not likely, but still possible. After some combing through the Internet, Sam had discovered that the field behind one of the science buildings was rumored to be a popular location for satanic rituals. “Could be some kind of demon,” Sam had suggested with a shrug. Cas was not entirely convinced, but it was a better theory than their previous ones. Which had been nothing. 

The diner’s parking lot was nearly full when they pulled in. Cas spotted Dean immediately, slouched on a faded barstool at the front counter. Sam slid into the empty seat beside him and Cas stood between. “Rough night?” Sam asked with a smile.

If the red veins bulging around Dean's pupils weren’t indication enough, Cas didn’t know what else was. “Oh, it was rough all right,” The bags around his eyes crinkled at the edges. “Klamath may be small, but they sure know how to party.” 

“I’m sure they do,” Sam pulled out his phone and showed Dean the article from earlier. “So, apparently there’s some satanic ritual sight behind the campus. Might be what’s causing all the disappearances.”

“You don’t say?” Dean’s stare was fixated on the waitress, Kat, who passed by with an exaggeration of her hips. She giggled in their direction and gave him a wink. “Tell me more.”

“Dean.”

“What? C’mon, live a little.”

“I’ll ‘live a little’ after we save the six men that are being held prisoner God knows where,” He pushed his phone into his brother’s hands. “Case first, play later.”

Dean sighed and scrolled through the website. “They know what type of rituals exactly?”

“It’s mostly just speculation. The article says a local group of women were last spotted there more than a decade ago during a full moon,” Dean nodded along. “They found some remains of some type of animal a few days later, but no evidence of anything involving human sacrifices.”

“Might’ve summoned a vengeful spirit,” Dean scrolled some more. “Some type of pissed off demon that doesn’t play well with others.”

“Men, especially.” 

“Could be something,” Dean rubbed his eyes. “Can we eat somethin’ first? I feel like shit.”

Sam scoffed. “Yeah, Dean, we’ll get some grease in that stomach of yours.”

“Good,” Sam’s phone began to vibrate in Dean's hand, the screen lighting up with an unfamiliar number. He read the 541 area code and grinned. “Sammy, you sly dog, who’s number did you score?”

“No one's,” He grabbed his phone and glanced at the number. “Might be the coroner’s office. Maybe they finally found a body,” He pressed the phone to his ear. “Agent Griggs,” He answered. His eyes widened as he turned in his stool to peer up at Cas. “Alright, thank you. We’ll head right over,” He ended the call and stared at his phone screen for a quiet moment. His shoulders were stiff and he rubbed his forehead. 

“That was the Klamath sheriff,” Sam sighed, his eyebrows raising sharply with pursed lips. “Make that seven men.”

The drive to the old campus was tense. Sam maneuvered the car with white knuckles while Dean had his elbow shoved into the window pane, his head rubbing over the stubble on his chin. In the backseat Cas watched the pine trees bleed past the vehicle, the only thing running through his head being the list of victims that they couldn’t save. One was too many. Seven was unthinkable. 

The usually desolate parking lot of the OIT was now packed with police cars, most of the law enforcement in town was more than likely present. A generous amount of caution tape was drawn over the dried out lawn before one of the academic buildings. The Impala came to a stop behind a row of squad vehicles and Cas followed the brothers between them. They came up on an officer who motioned for identification but was waved off by the sheriff, who called them over by name. 

“Agents,” The sheriff greeted them. They offered a curt nod in return. “We got another one.” 

“Same M.O.?” Sam asked.

“Younger male, dark hair, wandering around an abandoned campus in the dead of night,” The sheriff sighed. “Same shit, different day. You’d think people’d learn not to mess around out here after the first time.”

A small team of officers emerged from the building, holstering their weapons and dimming their flashlights. “Any leads on who he is?” Sam asked.

“Not a clue. His car’s still parked over in front of the science wing,” The officer nodded toward the dark colored vehicle parked a handful of spots down, surrounded by caution tape. “Haven’t had a chance to peek around inside.” 

“I will take a look,” Cas offered, retreating before either brother could object. He made his way under the tape and circled the vehicle, a few officers watching as he did so. He glanced up at them and they nodded at him, muttering things to one another as they cleared the area. He supposed his unusual choice of attire did not aid him in the art of “blending in.” Fallon had referred to him as “Inspector Gadget” the night before. He made a mental note to research the subject once they had smithed the entity responsible. 

The car was an older model, the black exterior having acquired quite a few buffs and dents against the paint. The passenger side door was open, revealing a grey upholstered seat and a few stray papers along the floorboard. A light splatter of blood stained the headrest of the seat. He glanced over his shoulder before lightly skimming the spot with the pad of his finger. It was dry but crusted. It couldn’t have been there for longer than twelve hours. Two cups sat forgotten in the cup holders between the seats. One was customary for a warm coffee, the other for those “lattes” that Sam always enjoyed drinking. The liquid inside was cold from the morning air, but still somewhat fresh. 

“There were two people here,” He muttered, his eyes skimming the backseat. A dark object against the carpet caught his eye and he rose from this crouch, opening the back door and retrieving the article.

It was a jacket. He brought the clothing to his nose and sniffed. His nose crinkled and he held it away. It wreaked of a musty body odor and a light layer of tire rubber. He twisted the material a few times in his palm and examined the tag. A men’s size large. He laid the jacket on the roof of the car and continued his search.

The driver’s side was next. He tugged on the door handle to pull open the door with no such luck. His eyes narrowed. The car was most surely unlocked, he had no trouble opening the back. He pulled a few more times, his free hand pressing against the frame of the car for leverage. “Come on,” he muttered. A police officer standing in the withered grass glanced up at him from his clipboard. Cas offered a terse wave. 

“The door handle is stuck,” It came out clumsier than he meant it. The officer furrowed his brow and nodded, turning back toward the building and making a note. Cas heaved with every ounce of strength his vessel could muster before slapping his palm against the metal.

“This is pointless,” He growled, and with the flick of his grace the door swung free. A scrap of paper floated toward the cement and he picked it up. His eyes widened. 

“Find anything?” As if on cue Dean strode to his side of the vehicle. Sam picked up the jacket from the car and examined it. 

Without a word Cas held the paper toward him. A crease formed between Dean's brows as he read the contents.

“Shit,” The hand holding the paper slapped against his thigh. “You gotta be kidding me.”

“What is it?” Sam asked. 

The angel exchanged a wary look with Dean before he answered. “It’s a paystub. Look what sorry sucker it’s made out to.”

Sam came around and stared at the name. “Bear Ryker,” He sighed. “Damn it.” 

“That is the man you were speaking of last night.” 

“Fallon’s shop hand,” Dean rubbed his eyes. “The guy that she told us to stay away from.”

“We should call her,” Sam pulled out his phone.

“Have you lost your god damn mind?” Dean tore his phone away before he could dial a digit. “She’s gonna tear us in two if she finds out.” 

“If the man that went missing is her employee, won’t she find out regardless?”

“Dean, we have to tell her before someone else does,” Sam reached for his phone with no luck. “She’s gonna be more pissed if a reporter gets to her first.”

“Here’s what we’re gonna do,” Dean held up a finger and shoved the phone into his pocket. His brother sighed. “We’re gonna regroup. You,” he pointed at Sam. “are gonna go over there and get us clearance to search this little slice of heaven top to bottom. We’re gonna go back to the motel, grab our gear, come back here tonight and find the son of a bitch takin’ these saps,” Dean shrugged. “Then we’ll find Bear, deliver his ass back to Fallon’s doorstep and she’ll be dripping with gratitude from our selfless act.” 

Cas’ eyes rolled to the back of his head. He had never met a more dramatic human being before he pulled Dean from the depths of hell. “I do not think Fallon will be as ‘gracious’ as you imagine.”

“And why the hell not? We’re saving her from having to hire a new mechanic. I think that’s worthy of some praise.”

“Not to mention the fact that she has already placed blame on your shoulders for enticing him to come here.”

“Say ‘pissed off’ once. Just once.”

“Can I at least have my phone back?” Sam held out his hand.

“Nope. Not ‘til we find Bear.” Dean patted the roof of the car and started back toward the Impala. “Now c’mon, we got work to do.” 


	7. Castiel

Cas had, what Dean had referred to it as, “love-hate relations” with patience.

He, of course, was derived from patience. Waiting was what he was created to do. Wait for humanity, wait for his Father’s orders regarding heaven’s next endeavor. Wait for Armageddon. He had spent eons as the fire and fury of the Kingdom itself awaiting the day he would travel to hell and rescue the infamous Dean Winchester himself. But without a human vessel, patience was an entirely different concept. It was logically impossible for him to feel any emotion at all.

As a human, this was not the case.

The moment he had inhabited Jimmy Novak’s vessel he felt it. Strange, at first. Similar to an itch that you scratch that never recedes. It continues, no matter how long you spend on that particular spot. He felt it during the first few months of speaking to Dean. The man would continuously defy his orders, and he found his vessel reacting strangely. The lid of his eyes would twitch. His limbs became fidgety. His skin would burn and he would find himself speaking much more harshly than he would like. It heightened when he began working closely with Uriel, his lack of faith in the Winchester’s and humanity itself pushing boundaries Castiel did not even know he had. By the time Armageddon had begun, it sometimes escaped him that he was an angel at all. It seemed every line was blurred. It proved terrifying. 

He knew now what he was feeling, of course. Irritation. Anger. Fear. All products of impatience at the outcome of the events around him. Things he could not control. Things he could control but failed to stop. As an angel it was manageable, mostly because he did not fail. It was as simple as that. But emotions complicate things. A human can only do so many tasks, can only succeed at so many things. It seemed an angel contained within a human vessel was no different.

And now here he was, strapped into the backseat of the Winchester’s vehicle, riding into the sunset toward the OIT campus with enough irritation to fuel an entire army. 

He understood the necessity to investigate the campus at night. The twilight hours proved most favorable toward a majority of supernatural entities, especially those existing in a spiritual state. It also made it easier for them to conduct a more intrinsic, in-depth search of the ruins. They could not perform a séance while the entire police force was observing their every move. There was just so much time wasted. Time that could be spent searching for the missing men instead was spent watching Dean consume a mass amount of greasy diner food and stare excessively at the waitress he had shared an evening with. He leaned his head back against the seat and sighed. Why did this world have to be so complicated?

Many of the street lights above the parking lot were dark, only a few illuminating as they closed in. The entire car sucked in a breath as they pulled into the lot. They exhaled at the absence of police cars.

“Alright, that’s what I’m talking about,” Dean drove toward the front of a triple floored building with most of its walls in-tact. “Oh, shit.”

The headlights revealed a single car parked in a “handicap” spot. An entire galaxy danced off the the claret finish of the vehicle, the two white stripes across the top almost as blinding as the light of heaven itself. Dean let out a low whistle.

“Someone’s here.” Sam muttered, as if someone could hear them.

“Now that’s a car,” Dean clicked his tongue. “If this guy doesn’t make it out, I call dibs.”

“Dean,” Sam sighed.

“We need to hurry,” Cas jumped from the car and slammed the door, half-jogging to the abandoned building. His worn dress shoes scuffed against the cracked cement. It echoed in his ears. 

“Cas!” Dean called, but he didn’t wait for him.

He had done enough waiting.

The building was nearly pitch black. The power had been cut from the campus long ago, the plastic casing covering the lightbulbs filled with cobwebs and a handful of recluse spiders. Cas’ eyes scanned the first floor for a few moments before deciding to take a risk. “Hello?” His voice bounced off of the walls. 

A piece of metal clattered to the cement floor in the next room. Cas’ head snapped up. “Hello?” He asked again. His heels barely made a sound across the flooring as he side-stepped to the adjoining room. He peeked his head around the corner. Not a soul that he could see. “Show yourself.”

“Not ‘til you put your god damn hands up,” A throaty voice spoke from behind him.

His hands went up toward the ceiling. The voice was too high to be Sam’s, not deep enough to be Dean’s. He began turning back toward the source. He sucked in a breath at the sight of a messy mass of blonde hair tied back with a bandana, the curves of her hips accentuated by the moonlight from a nearby window.“Fallon?” 

The safety of her handgun clicked. She had impeccable form. “Who the hell are you.”

“How ‘bout you tell us first,” Dean’s voice joined them, the brother’s familiar figures stepping through the doorway behind her. Sam was nearly Dean’s height by the way he poised his firearm. 

She pulled a second handgun from the waistband of her jeans, aiming it toward the boys. Her stare bounced from Cas back behind her as if she didn’t know where to look. “Shit,” She muttered.

“Dean, it’s Fallon,” Cas said. “Put your gun down.”

“Hold on, hold on,” her head snapped back around toward Cas. “Did you just call him Dean?” 

Sam riffled through his pack and produced a flashlight, fumbling with it blindly in the dark before turning it on. The cheap white light shone like a spotlight on Fallon, who shielded her eyes with the back of her hand. “Fallon?” Sam let his gun fall to his leg. “What are you doing here?”

“Could ask ya the same question, Fabio,” She huffed out a breath, her arms falling to her side. 

“Maybe you should look where you pointin’ next time. We almost blew your head off,” Dean holstered his weapon. “Not like shootin’ Cas would’ve done you any good.”

Sam trained the flashlight on him and Fallon studied him with an amused smirk. “Thought I heard some wings fluttering around. Guess it was a Blackbird after all,” She tucked a gun back into the back of her waistband.“Shoulda taken the shot, taught y’all what it’s like to feel my wrath.” 

“Fallon, we’re- “

“Save your breath, Sam, I don’t wanna hear it,” She tucked her second pistol into the front of her jeans and brushed past Cas, the blow of her shoulder pushing him back a step. “All I’m here to do is grab my mechanic, kill this son of a bitch and get home.” 

“And you were gonna do that all by yourself. Do you even know what this thing is?”

“I _am_ gonna do it by myself and no, I don’t know what the hell this thing is but I reckon I’ll figure it out,” The boys followed behind her, the flashlight illuminating every crack and crevice lining her boots. She walked with a limp that favored her right side. 

“Fallon, I know you’re upset, but I think we might cover more ground if we work together,” Sam called from the back. Fallon scoffed.

“For what y’all did, I should’ve just shot you,” She turned around suddenly, Cas nearly running into her. “Listen up, Grizz is here ‘cause you idiots put the idea in his thick skull,” The way she spoke made “idea” sound like it had an “r” at the end. “And I don’t want you tagging along to screw anything else up. So why don’t you stay back and let me do this shit so I can get back to my boring life.”

“There was someone else with Bear when he was kidnapped,” Cas spoke in a hurry, as if his vessel was rigged to explode if he didn’t get the words out fast enough. She blinked at him.

“The hell you talking about? Stevie Rae showed up this morning saying he tore off to go on some wild adventure after their dinner date and never came home. Said she didn’t wanna get mixed up in it.”

“There was a second beverage container in the cup holder. And a blood stain on the seat.” 

He could practically see the gears turning within her head. “Stevie was walking with a limp. Said she fell down the stairs at her ma’s.” 

“Why would she lie about being with Bear?” Sam wondered.

“Seems to be a pattern with Stevie Rae,” Her blonde hair shook side to side.

Dean nodded his head. “She lie about other things?”

“Plenty. Like how long she’s been around here for,” She shoved her hands into her pockets and leaned on her left foot. “Claims she been here since high school but no one knows who the hell she is. Not very likely when the graduating class was 75 people.”

“You didn’t see her at graduation?” Sam asked.

“Couldn’t tell you. Didn’t graduate.”

“Does ‘Stevie Rae’ make frequent trips out of town?” Cas inquired.

“Grizz said she visits family here in Klamath at least once a week,” Fallon shrugged. “Her grandma or somethin’, I don’t know. Last name’s Thatcher.”

Sam pulled out his phone and nodded toward the doorway behind them. “Let’s go pay Grandma Thatcher a house visit.”

They huddled outside while Sam spoke to the local police. The full moon cast a white light across the entirety of the campus, bathing them in an eerie evening light. Dean was walking laps around what he assumed to be Fallon’s vehicle, his face brighter than the moon. “So, this your girl?”

“One and only,” She looked proud. “I ripped out most her insides and touched up the paint, but it’s all the original framework and metal from when she first came to be.”

“Haven’t seen a ’70 Chevelle shine like this in my lifetime.”

“Yeah, well, they don’t know how to take care of a car, then,” She made her way toward him, stuttering a bit when she stepped over the curb. 

“Original specs?”

“Had to replace the engine when I first got her. Snagged an LS6 and added twin turbos.” 

Dean whistled. “Think you can gas up my baby next?”

“Ask me again after we find Grizz.”

“Well, thank you. We appreciate the help.” Sam spoke into the phone as he returned to the group. All eyes were trained on him. “We’ll keep in touch. Goodnight,” He hung up the phone and shook it in the air. “Well, one things for sure. There’s no one with the last name ‘Thatcher’ that lives in Klamath.”

“Grandma could have a different last name,” Dean suggested.

“If the stories ring true, there’s only a ‘Thatcher,’” Fallon shook her head. “Told Grizz she was a bastard kid. Never knew her pa.”

“How do you know all of that?” Sam asked.

“Like I said, boy can’t keep his mouth shut.” 

“So, Psycho Rae hauls her boyfriend off god knows where, gets knocked around a bit and comes back just to tell you he’s missing? Something’s not right.”

“She might have wanted to look less suspicious. Maybe she thought by coming to you and reporting him missing, it would make her appear innocent,” Cas said.

“But why tell me?” She muttered.

“Maybe she knew you’d come,” There was humor in Dean’s voice, a light flip of sarcasm in his usual gruff tone. 

Her eyes narrowed, slivers of dark brown in the white light. She stared at the building. 

“Maybe we’re not looking at the big picture,” Sam eyes widened, walking backward for a moment before turning and heading around the structure. The three followed, Fallon struggling to keep up in the back. 

Cas slowed down until they were side by side. “Are you injured?” He tilted his head as he glanced down at her. The crown of her head hardly met the curve of his shoulder. 

Fallon scoffed. “I’m fine, leg just acts up when it’s cold.” 

“I can heal it for you,” She stopped cold and stared at him. “My angelic abilities allow me to heal injur-“

“Lay a hand on me and I’ll tear it off,” She charged forward, her limp even more accentuated with her increased speed and effort. He watched her walk for a moment before hurrying to catch up. Sam waved them over to a place in the weeds and pointed toward the prominent hill in the distance. A single willow tree hunched over the brush, looming over the space like a guardian of a treasure. A few slabs of putrid wood stood as reminders of buildings that had stood there long ago. 

“The willow tree,” Sam breathed. “The same one from that article we read online.”

“Gotta be more specific, Sammy, you know how I am with remembering things.”

“It’s where they found those animal remains all those years ago,” Sam rolled his eyes. “The article said that they found some bones underneath a willow tree behind the old OIT campus. But they couldn’t ever prove it was for satanic rituals.”

Fallon’s body had gone rigid, her shoulders stiff and her fists clenched at her side. Her breathing was deep and slow as if she were putting a great deal of effort into keeping an even rhythm. She stared at the hillside like it held the answers to life’s most well-kept secrets. 

“Well, should we go check it out?”

“I think I left the EMF reader in the car,” Sam pointed back toward the parking lot. “I’ll go grab it and we can head over.”

“We went into an abandoned building, at night, looking for seven missing guys and some kind of monster and you left the EMF reader in the car?” Dean gaped at his brother.

“Well, I was a little too focused on chasing after Cas.”

“Can you blame the guy for wanting to get this case wrapped up? Not an excuse for you to forget that shit. What if we needed it?”

“Here’s a revolutionary concept: we walk back to the car and grab it,” He performed a mock-gasp. “Unless your legs are still broken from the vampire that threw you around back in Tulsa.”

“Hey, Oklahoma vampires are the nastiest sons of bitches out there.” 

Cas groaned, letting his gaze roam around the area for a moment. They were fortunate no other men had ventured to the ruins in search of the missing. Maybe there was a basement in one of the buildings that they were being held in. Or maybe some type of storage shed behind the campus. Cas went to exchange a weathered glance with Fallon but was met with an empty outline of boots in the dying grass.

He looked up just in time to watch a figure staggering in the distance, half-jogging through the thicket toward the weeping willow on the hilltop. 

“Dean,” Cas called. The boys turned and let out a collective groan.

It seemed Cas was not the only one who struggled with patience.


	8. Fallon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: this chapter's a bit longer.

Fallon couldn’t stand winter.

Which was ironic, considering she’d set up shop in the coldest corner of hell Oregon had to offer. 

She could remember a time when she loved snow. Used to run into her Pa’s room in a ratty pair of Hot Wheels PJ’s and shake him awake before the sun was even up. He’d bundle her up, practically sleep walking as he watched her waddle around the front yard from the old porch swing. Snow angels would cover the grass and a half-assed snowman would stand tall and proud next to the old oak tree. They never had carrots so she’d always make do with twigs in the snow. She'd tell her Pa that he'd had a nose job to make it thinner. He’d always crack a toothy grin at that.

Now, the early months meant tight funds. Roads were always blocked from the ice and snow so no business could come through. Less business meant less money. Grizz would always get paid, course. Even if it meant taking a hit she made sure he got the same paycheck at the end of the week.

Grizz. 

Damn that kid. Always sticking his big ass nose into things he shouldn’t. She’d heard a bit about the OIT kidnappings on the news the month before but kept it quiet in hopes it’d slip by him. Guess she was wrong. She hated being wrong. 

She was gonna kill those brothers. And that Accountant of the Lord.

After she found Grizz. 

The distance between the weeping willow and the old science building looked a lot shorter from the parking lot. Her steel-toe work boots and tight knit Wranglers weren’t ideal for a midnight jog. Not to mention she was dragging her bum leg behind her like it had 50 pounds tied to it. She’d always hated that part of hunting: the running part. She’d made it a point to cut it out once she’d retired. She’d done a pretty good job till now. A nine-year streak wasn’t so bad. 

She stopped short of the willow, trying to regain control of her leg as she struggled to get air. How the hell did people do that for fun? She re-adjusted both her pistols in her waistband and put her hands on her hips. A thin layer of sweat formed like dew under the fabric of her long-sleeve tee. At least she wasn’t cold anymore.

That sweat turned to ice when she started looking around.

Back before her Pa was born there used to be some sort of shed out here. The rocket scientists in the science wing used to use it for storage, for all their extra test beakers and whatever else they had. It hardly was used. Einstein’s weren’t usually born in these parts. They eventually handed it over to an up-and-coming fraternity that believed in the “cleansing” of humanity. Six months later there was a kid hanging from the willow branches and the shed lay in ashes. The dozen or so frat boys were never found.

Or so it went. If Klamath was good for anything, it was tall tales. For all she knew the kids all ran for the hills and started work as Jehovah’s Witnesses in Toronto. Shit, maybe one of them is the original Jehovah Witness. But something about the animal remains they’d picked up from the same spot told her that might not be the case. She may not believe in God, but she sure as shit believed in demons. 

The harvest moon helped shine light on the ruins, enough to see shapes but not enough for her to make out details. For a rare moment she wished she’d quit being stubborn and gotten glasses. Most of the remains of the shed had long been picked over by squatters and history buffs but a few pieces remained. She kneeled on her left leg, rummaging with a blind hand under a plank of moldy wood. “They ever clean this place out?” She muttered, her head swiveling to the side every few seconds. 

“Fallon,” A hand touched her shoulder from behind and she sprang into action. She grabbed the wrist and twisted the hand back, the owner’s callused fingers nearly touching the back of their forearm. She breathed hard as she glared at the figure. 

“Jesus, Fallon, it’s me, it’s me,” Dean’s gruff voice broke the air like a bullet from a gun. Fallon let out a shaky breath and dropped his hand. 

“Didn’t your Ma ever tell ya to not sneak up on a person when their pokin’ around a creepy ass hill during a harvest moon?” Her heart was close to beating right out of her chest. 

“No, our dad didn’t let us use Ouija boards growing up.” 

Her eyebrows screwed up as she stared at him, his face still a blur but that red flannel shirt unmistakable. She went to say something before the other two joined the party.

“We’ve been saying your name for the past three minutes,” Sam’s wiry figure hovered over like a second tree. She had to listen hard to make out his tight whisper. “How did you not hear us? We were right there.”

“Yeah, well, speak up next time,” Fallon turned back toward the slab and went back to digging. “Some people weren’t blessed with god given abilities of super-sonic hearing.”

Sam snorted.

“Have you found anything?” Castiel rumbled like a V8 that hadn’t been greased. 

“Beside a few piles of ash and the sense of impending doom? Not much.”

“There’s gotta be something,” Dean sighed. “Satanists don’t just ‘go away.’ Especially if they’ve found a good spot to do their rituals.”

“Unless they were killed,” Castiel said.

Fallon gave her nose a scratch. 

“Is there any way Stevie Rae is some type of Satanist?” Sam asked.

“Couldn’t tell you,” She sniffed. “Only met her a couple times.” Her fingers brushed something that felt like fur and yanked her hand back. “Oh, yeah, there’s somethin’ under there.”

Sam crouched next to Fallon and whipped out his flashlight, shoving the wood aside with a little effort and shone the spotlight toward the object. Dean make a choking sound from behind them.

“What the hell is that thing?” Dean motioned toward the heap of dark feathers. The head was missing. Her eyes narrowed. 

“Is that-“

“A black cockerel,” Castiel nodded, crouching next to Sam. “Commonly used as a ritualistic sacrifice within wicken cults.”

“So, this isn’t demonic at all,” The flashlight hit Sam’s leg as he scoffed. “It’s a witch.”

At least forty pounds were pulled from Fallon’s shoulders at once. 

“So where does Maleficent keep her brewing pot?” Dean asked. “I don’t see any spinning needles out here.”

“It’s a spindle, Dean,” Sam rubbed his forehead.

“You know what I meant.”

Fallon rolled her eyes, her stare settling on a pair of bright blue ones. They shone in the dark like the god damn sun. She darted her stare away and caught a glimpse of something beaming under the moonlight no more than a hundred feet away.

“Fallon, what is it?” Sam watched her rise, the weeds crunching under her boots as she made her way toward the object. She hit her knees in front of it and traced it with her fingers.

“Metal,” She muttered. It was thin, lightly coated with a thin layer of dew from the late night air. It rose and fell in a half-dome shape. “A handle,” She gave the piece a swift yank and felt a wooden door shift beneath it. It made a dull thud as it hit the dirt again.

“What is it?” It was Dean’s turn to crouch beside her.

“Some kind of trap door,” She pulled again but it caught, a strip of yellow light slipping through the crack. “Locked from the inside.”

“Deadbolt or padlock?” Sam asked.

Fallon grunted as she pulled again, long enough for her to get a look at the latch. “Padlock. Key based.”

“There’s bolt cutters in the trunk,” Dean bounced up like a jackrabbit and held out his hands toward Sam. “Light?” The plastic clattered in his hand and he turned to bolt.

“Allow me,” Castiel was suddenly crouched beside her, gently brushing her hand away from the door handle with his own. She tore her hand away as if she’d been burned. He lifted the wood panel like it was made of mosaic glass and pointed free finger toward the lock. A blue sort of light floated from his fingertip and coated the lock, the metal easily dissolving like it was made of paper. The metal latch swung free and he hauled the door open.

“Holy shit,” Fallon stared at the corridor with doe eyes. “You angels don’t mess around.”

“Atta boy, Cas,” The light was coming from a dimly lit lantern at the bottom of some stairs, leading down into hell itself. Dean clapped him on the shoulder as he jumped down onto the first step. “Safety’s off. We don’t know what we’re gonna find down here.”

Sam followed close behind him, with Castiel and Fallon bringing up the rear. Stairs were never a walk in the park. And these didn’t have railings. The angel watched her hobble down with stiff legs, a thin layer of grime coating her hand from skimming the wall. He offered a hand and she snorted, nearly shoulder checking him on the way to the dirt floor. She stepped in front of him and withdrew her pistol from the front of her jeans. She’d gone over a decade without a hand to help, she could go another ten years.

The hall was almost cave-like, nothing but dirt on all sides. She tried to control her breathing but wasn’t doing a good job. Each step made it seem like the space was getting smaller. Her handgun about slipped through her sweaty grasp. By the time they were crouching all she could hear was her panting like a dog.

“Why do entities insist on confiding themselves to the darkest and smallest places imaginable?” Castiel muttered, the top of his hair collecting dust from the top of the cave. She stopped and stared at him.

“What’d you say?” Her stomach dropped to her toes. She wished like hell she was surprised. She wasn’t.

“I said, why do entities-“

“I know what you said,” she huffed out a shaky breath, limping forward again. Seemed that dream of hers was more like a magic crystal ball. “Just wish it was the first time I was hearing it.” 

They walked a little further. Sam finished loading his pistol with some special looking ammo and cocked it. 

“What’s up with the art project on your bullets?” Fallon nodded at Sam’s gun. He snickered and dug around his pocket.

“I guess you could say that,” He pulled out a spare and handed it to her. “Witch-killing bullets. I rigged them with the witch-killing spell just in case performing rituals isn’t in the cards.”

“Damn,” She rubbed the bullet between her fingers, raising her brow. “Gotta hand it to ya, that’s pretty nifty.”

He smiled. “Thanks.” 

“Hold up,” Dean stopped the group from the front. “Something’s up ahead,” He glanced over his shoulder back toward them and nodded. “Ready?”

“Ready.” Sam held his gun next to his head. Fallon offered a curt nod. Castiel shifted behind her.

He charged forward and ducked through a lower ceiling entry, the tiny walkway opening up to a giant rocky cavern. If Fallon thought it was cold up above, she didn’t wanna know how she’d feel after thirty minutes down here. Another lantern burned in the back corner but barely brought anything to light. Dean bounced the flashlight around the room until he spotted an arm. “There.” His boots scraped against the cave floor as he shoved his gun into his waistband. He knelt down and began to look over the body as the group followed.

“Anything?” Sam whispered.

Dean sighed. “Long gone. Practically frozen solid,” He shone the flashlight in the guy’s face and Fallon covered her mouth.

“Jeffrey Franks,” She watched her words leave her mouth in a white puff of air. He was chained to the floor with a pair of steel cuffs. They looked medieval. “Fucking hell.”

“There’s another,” Sam pulled out his phone and used it as a light, moving toward a second body. He checked for life. “He’s gone, too.” 

Her heart was pounding now. Gun still tucked firmly in her fingers she started forward, blind as a bat in the depths of the cave. “Grizz?” She called hoarsely. No answer. Her finger started to tap wildly against the trigger. “Bear Ryker, you better call out or so help me you’re fired.”

A groan. Barely audible. Her head snapped up. For a split second she believed there was a Big Man watching down on them. “Grizz? Grizz, you gotta tell me where you are. You know how useless my eyes are.”

A deep moan. Louder this time. It was like a shitty game of Marco-Polo. “Need a light over here,” Her words were shrill in the stone walls. The beam of light came flying through the dead air and clattered to her feet. She fumbled for it and pointed it in a thousand directions at once. “Call out, Grizz. Lemme hear you.”

“This is the man who's family I spoke to yesterday.” Castiel sighed from some place behind her. Her light shined on a couple different faces but none of them Grizz. She knelt by one and shone the light in his face. Ryan Virgil. The stench of an abandoned slaughter house hit her like a freight train, nearly puking up her sandwich from earlier. 

“He’s over here!” Sam’s voice was like a sign from God. She tripped on her way up, stumbling over her bum leg just to get to him. She spotted them in the stream of light near the back side of the cave, Sam’s back blocking her view of Grizz.

“Grizz,” she fell to her knees next to him, shining the light on his face. He groaned, his usual child-like stare now clouded over like a winter rain. His face was tore up. Most of his blood was on the ground. But he was still kicking. Her eyes burned with relief. “Thank god.”

“Falcon-“ his bottom lip was covered in blood and dirt. His voice was like he’d smoked a dozen packs behind the Eagle’s Nest bar on Friday night. His mouth twitched in the corner.

“Damn it, boy, I told ya to mind ya business,” she grabbed him by the collar and shook him lightly. “Quit meddling in shit you can’t handle.”

“Fallon...“ he coughed. One of the cuff chains jingled as he tried to move his arm. “Stevie-“

“We know, Grizz,” She nodded. Castiel was next to her now, turning his head to face him. “We’ll get her after you’re safe.” 

“His injuries are grave but I can still heal him,” Castiel said. He ripped open the front of his shirt like it was a sheet of paper and examined his chest. “He has a few broken ribs and a collapsed lung. His internal organs are stable, though.”

What was this guy, an X-ray machine? 

“Less talk, more fixing,” She put pressure on Grizz’s thigh and he growled between his teeth. “Jesus, broken femur, too? You better take a break from dating after this one.” He let out a weak huff at that one. 

Castiel slid both hands underneath the torn edges of his shirt to “heal him,” with the forces of his angel-ness or whatever power he harnessed to fix things with his freaking mind. She waited for that same blue light to come out of his hand like it did before. Nothing happened. Grizz moaned from the pressure on his chest.

“He looks the same,” Fallon said. “Why’s he look the same?”

“Cas?” Sam’s voice rose at the end. 

“My powers are being restricted,” Castiel grunted. “The cave must be warded.”

“What, so you bust us in here with your powers and now Superman is on planet Krypton?”

“The witch must have suspected an angel might try to intervene.”

“Looks like I was right,” Their heads snapped around and settled on a tiny little body in the low light of the lamp. Stevie Rae. Fallon’s teeth clenched. “I do love it when the bugs crawl willingly into the spider’s web.” 

“What the hell, Stevie? You do this to your own god damn boyfriend?”

“Nothing personal. He’s my type,” She shrugged, letting out a shrill giggle. It was like two panes of glass grinding against one another. “There’s just something about tall brunette men that get my insides all gooey.” 

“What, those roosters ain’t enough for your spells?”

She crossed one foot over the other as she started toward them, like a cat preying on a church mouse. “Oh, the black cockerel are great for rituals, don’t get me wrong,” Sam jumped up on the defense, stepping in front of Grizz and blocking Fallon’s view of Stevie. “The boys are for something a little… tastier.” 

Fallon twisted around Sam’s leg to get a better look, her wandering eye catching something moving behind the witch. Dean was hunched over, gun drawn, ready to take her out from behind. They just had to keep her busy. Fallon punched Sam in the calf to alert him. He nudged his foot back in understanding. “And this cave is what? Your secret lair?”

“Oh, you mean my little slice of heaven here?” She ran both hands through her long blonde hair as she walked. Jesus, were witches always this cocky? “I got lucky with this one. Was underneath that old shed that used to be here back in the 50’s. Until those idiot cult leaders burnt it down. Satanists get so rowdy during their little pep rallies.” 

Fallon gulped. 

“But, no matter. I got what I wanted. Plus a little something extra,” She was close now. Too close. What was Dean waiting for? 

“Why the hell did you want me here?”

Stevie let out a toneless laugh. “You seriously don’t get it, do you? Can you not feel the energy, even in this room?” She shook her head. “There's something special about you, Fallon. Something powerful. You try to push it away, try to drown your problems in a twelve pack of Coors Light. But you don’t have to run anymore.”

“Take Bear and run,” Castiel muttered under his breath, grabbing her wrist to get her attention. “I will heal him once we destroy this witch.”

“Are you touched in the head? The whole reason we’re here is ‘cause she wants to take me out. This is my fight,” She yanked her arm away just as Dean swung the butt of his gun to the back of Stevie Rae's head. She caught his arm without even turning around. Her foot met his gut and she twisted his arm backward. The gun clattered to the floor.

“Dean!” Sam drew his gun and aimed it at her. She muttered some mumbo-jumbo under her breath and held out her palm. Sam flew through the air and hit the back wall of the cave. His eyes shut on impact and he dropped his pistol. 

“Take Grizz and go!” Fallon gave Castiel a shove as she stood up. “Get him out of here,” Stevie shoved her heel into the toe of Dean's boot and he doubled over. A punch to his nose straightened him back up. Blood dripped off his chin. He took a swing but Stevie ducked. She popped back up and delivered another blow into his jaw. Something cracked. He stumbled back and she brought her heel to his gut. He grabbed her foot and twisted. 

Fallon looked back and watched that dirty old raincoat fly down the corridor with Grizz in his arms. She let out a breath and turned back toward the fight. Dean and Stevie were both on the floor now, her limbs thrashing wildly under his body. He grabbed her shoulders and heaved, making her shriek as her head hit the floor. He did this two more times until her knee delivered a crushing blow between his legs. Her fist met his face and he crumbled on top of her. She flipped him on his back and straddled his waist, pounding on his head like it was a punching bag. 

Fallon charged toward them and emptied the chamber of her pistol. She fumbled in her pocket and found the bullet Sam had given her. Her fingers missed the magazine a few times before she finally got it. She pushed it back in and pulled back the hammer. The butt felt slick in her palm. “Dean!” She yelled. 

He turned toward her and twisted his torso as far away as he could. Stevie showed her the white of her eyes before she pulled the trigger. Her body jolted back at impact. Her white shirt bled red on the left breast. She looked down at her wound. Fallon let out a breathless laugh. Dean uncovered his face from under his shoulder. 

Then she laughed. A haunting sound. Like one of those evil minions in a horror movie. When she looked up and smiled, her teeth were like like the end of spears. The gun slipped from Fallon’s hands.

“Nice try, sweetheart,” She snarled. She bolted up with inhuman-like speed and shoved her toe into Dean’s ribs. He let out a strangled moan and doubled into himself. She hardly had time to blink before she felt a pound into her gut.

She fell back a step. Her bum leg nearly gave out. She almost doubled over but thought better, stretching out her torso to find air. Stevie was in her face now, staring at her with sickly yellow eyes that were born from nightmares. Stevie gripped her forearms and Fallon cried out. Stevie's nails felt like bear claws digging into her skin. It was like getting stabbed in ten different spots at once. Fallon watched dark hair grow under her fingers and took a shuddering breath. 

“Werewolf,” Fallon choked out. Stevie bore her fangs.

“Ding-ding,” She said. The claws of her left hand drug up her stomach like it was nothing and shoved her to the dirt.

Fallon was writhing. Her torso was on fire. Her gun tucked into the back of her jeans drilled her tailbone. She’d left the safety on. She struggled to get a look under her ruined shirt to make sure her organs hadn’t fallen out. She saw nothing but dark, crimson blood. Her head fell back and Stevie was suddenly above her. Her hairy fingers gripped her by the collar and tugged her up. The pistol slipped from her pants and clattered to the floor. The gashes on her stomach thudded in time with her heart beat. She struggled to keep her neck straight.

“You really thought I was just a witch? Childs play,” Stevie punched her in the nose. Hard. She felt something snap. The taste of copper filled her mouth. The blood on her lips. Dripping like a broken spout. She coughed. A few specks of blood hit Stevie’s face. A small victory. “Why just be a purebred wolf when I could be so much more? Something great. Something powerful.” Another blow to Fallon's face. Her eye this time. Her cheek went numb but thawed out quick. Her left eye swelled shut almost immediately. “Not that you’d know anything about that. All you do is run,” She gave her another sharp shove and Fallon hurtled back down. Her head smacked the dirt this time. She fought unconsciousness. Sweat was seeping into the gashes now. Salt ate away at her skin. She panted. Her head was on fire. Her stomach was on fire. Everything was on fire. 

“Don’t fight it, Fallon,” her voice was sickly sweet. Fallon’s head lolled to the side and she met Ryan’s dead stare. For a minute she was jealous. He’d probably had it easy. “You know what you are. I know what you are.”

Her eyes caught a twinkle in his fingers. She let out a breath through blood stained lips. Imperial sterling silver pocketknife. Bastard didn’t know what he had. She mustered every ounce of strength and tried to lift her arm. It weighed a thousand pounds.

“I can make it go away,” Her claws dug into her chin as she turned Fallon’s face to look at her. Her pupils were nothing but black slivers in a pool of yellow. Her breath wreaked of a thousand dead bodies. Her arm made slow progress. Too slow. “All that raw power in your veins,” she breathed in through her flattened out nose and sighed. Her eyes rolled to the back of her head. “All that raw power you refuse to acknowledge will finally go to someone who’s worth a damn.” Her chuckle rumbled in her chest. Their foreheads were nearly touching. “Tell you what, you give yourself over without a fuss and I’ll make it quick. Do you better than what your mom got.” 

Her fingertips blindly met the cool blade. It nicked the tip of her finger. She balled it in her fist and smirked at Stevie one last time. 

“Send her my best when you get to hell.” 

The pocket knife slid like butter into her chest, making a dull sound as it bottomed out. It stood tall and proud between their bodies. Her breathing sputtered. Her eyes widened. She choked on air. Her paws loosened their grip from her shirt and Fallon’s torso hit the ground. She staggered to her feet and stared at the knife. Stevie's fist curled around it but did nothing. 

“No-“ she gasped, dropping to her knees. She let out a tearless sob before crumbling into a lifeless heap. Nothing but a bag of bones and mounds of matted hair.

She lay there for a moment, surrounded by dead bodies and two unconscious brothers. She couldn’t hear a thing beside the ringing in her ears. Her body ached in places she didn’t know could ache. Her nose was definitely broken. Her left shoulder probably dislocated. She’d definitely need stitches for her gut. Her chest shook as she took one more deep breath before hoisting herself into a sitting position. Her body screamed at her, white hot pain coursing through every muscle she had. She hissed as her back straightened. Her left arm sagged. She took inventory of the war zone around her. Sam was still slumped against the rocks. Dean was a pile of flannel and blood next to the dim gaslamp. Their guns were scattered across the cave. A puddle of yellow liquid had pooled under Stevie’s body. And her work boots had god damn red stains on the leather. She should have worn her Justin Boots instead. Her eyes stared down at the now red-and-brown bandana on her wrist. She let out a sigh. Then she got to work.

First was her nose. She pressed both sets of fingers to the bridge of her nose and took a deep breath. Her eyes squeezed shut. On the exhale she yanked her hands down, the shrill crack loud enough for her to hear. She bit the side of her thumb to keep from screaming. She scrunched up her nose once, twice, then sniffed. Felt decent enough. It was already fucked up, anyway. 

Second was her shoulder. With more effort than she’d like, she got to her feet. Her legs were a bit shaky at first so she bent at the hip and rested on her knees for a minute. Each breath put pressure on those damn holes across her gut. She straightened up and limped toward the nearest curve of wall, pressing her left shoulder firmly into the stone. She muttered something along the lines of “just do it, you pussy” until she dropped her body beneath her shoulder, grinding against the wall. The bones in her arm popped and several joints in her shoulder cracked. Her chin hit the slope of her chest and she gasped. She took a moment before trying to move her shoulder. A little stiffness, but nothing a shot a whiskey couldn’t fix. Or ten. 

She touched her eye and flinched. Wasn’t much she could do about that one. She’d just say she got into another bar fight at Pikey’s bar. Not much of a stretch. 

Now, her gut. Fallon took a deep breath before lifting her shirt away, staring at the gashes on her torso. The blood had already started to clot, most of the streams dried against her skin. They were pretty shallow, each only about quarter inch wide, but those suckers stretched out. There were only four and they took up half her torso. From the band of her jeans to the wire of her bra. They leaked blood in a few spots but had slowed down once her adrenaline had stopped pumping.

She limped over to Stevie and kicked her body with the toe of her boot. She flopped onto her back like an old rag doll. Her eyes were wide open. Her jaw practically unhinged. The points of her teeth fit perfectly between each other. That silver pocket knife hardly shifted with her movement. As if it belonged there.

Fallon tugged the knife from her torso and wiped the blood from the blade on her jeans. She shoved it in her pocket. She leaned down and ripped open Stevie’s white shirt and pulled it free from her arms. Not like she’d be needing it, anyway. She wrapped it long ways around her waist once, then twice. She tied the sleeves together in the front and pulled the remnants of her shirt down over the bandages.

There was movement in the corner of her eye. She turned and watched Sam shift from against the wall, groaning as he tilted his head from side to side. His neck cracked. His eyes fluttered open and their stares met.

“Fallon-“ He muttered, rubbing his head. “Where-“ He looked around before spotting the hairy body on the floor beside her. His eyes widened. “Is that-“

“Stevie? Yeah,” She glanced down at her and back at Sam. She shrugged. “Turned out to be a werewolf-wizard. Who’d have thought?”

His eyebrows met in the middle of his face. He made to move but moaned, his fingers pressing into his temple. “Jesus, what did she do to me?” He spoke through his teeth.

“Some kinda spell. Threw you into the wall.”

“I don’t even remember it.”

Fallon scoffed. “Probably good you don’t.”

More movement from behind her. She whipped her head around as Dean started to come back down to earth. He lifted his chest off the ground but his head didn’t follow. He groaned loud enough to wake a sleeping bear.

“Dean?” Sam called out. Dean moaned in response.

Fallon shuffled over, a little slower than normal but nothing too obvious. Her tailbone was bruised as shit but her legs hadn’t gotten too beat up. She reached down and turned Dean on his back to give him a once over.

“Well, would ya look at that,” Fallon clicked her tongue, taking in his shattered nose and bloodied face. It was quite the shift from his usual pretty-boy physique. “Ken-doll’s got a black eye. You’re gonna need some frozen pees for that one.”

He made a sound from deep in his throat. Her lip pulled into a smirk.

“C’mon, Dean,” Sam was up now, tripping over his own feet to retrieve his brother. He let go of his head long enough to grab Dean’s arm and start pulling him to his feet. “We gotta get out of here before the cops show up.”

“We give that witch what’s for?” It was hardly English but Fallon got the gyst of it. She let Dean lean into her right shoulder while Sam took the other arm. Dean slung his arm over her shoulders and she stifled a grunt when his fist hit her left trap. He was favoring his left side. Probably broke his ankle. 

“Deader than a doornail,” Fallon nodded toward the body in the middle of the cave. They stepped around it and Dean snorted.

“Hell yeah,” His voice cracked in the middle. His head hung in front of him and he groaned.

“What are we gonna do about her?” Sam asked as they hobbled to the cave entrance. “She’s still in werewolf form. No one will be able to explain why she’s suddenly a dog.”

Fallon looked back over her shoulder and stared at the body. Her eyes slid toward the lantern and she smirked.

“Bing-o.” She ducked from under Dean’s arm and staggered across the cave, picking up the lantern and peeking inside. It still had some oil left and the flame was still burning. She stood over Stevie and held out the lamp.

Fallon swung the lantern at the ground and watched it shatter, jumping back a bit as the flames burned before her. They licked at her skin as Stevie's clothes began to blacken. It’d be a bit before her body would go but at least the hair’d be synched by the time the cops showed. She gave her one last, curt nod before taking Dean’s arm. They shuffled out together, their spirits a little brighter than they'd been on the way in.


	9. Fallon

Stairs were a lot harder when you had a two hundred-something pound deadweight on your shoulder.

Sam had to do most of the grunt work, pulling him by the right arm. Fallon steadied his left, acting as more a crutch for his busted side. After nearly ten minutes of that nonsense Barbie finally took hold of Ken and swung him onto the weeds outside of the crawlspace. He offered a hand but she waved it off, slinging her right foot onto the dirt before following with her left. The moon was right above them now, the ruins a little more visible than it had been earlier. Sam was already halfway down the hill with Dean in tow. She sighed and stared down into the hole. The steps looked like they went on for a million miles. She gave the area one last heavy glance before pulling up the wooden door and letting it clatter closed. It was like shutting a coffin. 

By the time she was at the parking lot both boys were already getting their check-up from Doctor Accountant. He was studying Dean's busted nose with a concentrated stare. Sam was his usual stick-straight self, leaned up against the car and watching his brother get looked at. Dean groaned at a particular touch from Castiel.

“What do you keep lookin’ at? Just fix it, already.” 

“Stop squirming. Hold still,” Castiel hovered his palm over his ankle and his "spidey senses" activated, blue light seeped out and spreading across his skin like a cloud to work its magic. A few seconds later Dean let out a sigh, rotating his foot and lolling his head like he was a new man. 

“Thanks, doc,” He jumped up from the hood of his car and swung his arms around, his back cracking as he moved. 

That was when she spotted a fourth figure leaned up against her Chevelle. His beak of a nose seemed to be even more obvious in the pale light. “Grizz,” She blew past Barbie’s Dream Team and headed straight for the mechanic. He turned his head at her voice and dropped his arms. 

“Falcon,” He sounded better. So much better. His voice was back to its usual smooth and perky self. A random stranger wouldn’t have been able to guess he’d just been chained up in a cave as a human entrée. 

“You look better,” She cleared her throat. “I mean, still ugly but not all cut up and shit.” 

He let out a short laugh, his head hanging down. “Yeah, I feel better. Still don’t really know what happened, but I’m alive. Can’t complain, I guess.”

“Listen, Grizz-“

“Save it,” He sighed. “I know what happened down there wasn’t anywhere close to natural or normal. Stevie was always sort of a wild-card so I’m not all that surprised that she went psycho on me.”

Fallon scoffed and hooked her thumbs in her belt loops.

“And I’ve always thought paranormal shit was out there. Hell, I had a hunch from the beginning that’s what this was. But this whole ‘hunting monsters’ your half shaman-healer, half FBI agent was trying to tell me is a little out there,” They both glanced at Castiel, who was staring at the buildings like some sort of portal was about to open up to an alternate dimension. “And the fact you’re one of them…” he shook his head. “It’s wild, man.”

“Was,” Fallon clarified. “A lifetime ago.”

“Fallon, you’ve got blood all over your face and you’re walking around like its Sunday morning after church,” He shoved his hands into his pockets. “I highly doubt that.”

The gashes under her shirt screamed in protest. She raised her brows and shrugged. “It’s part of my past, sure. Hunting’s kinda like riding a bike. Except the bikes on fire and everyone dies.”

Grizz huffed out a breath. “Sounds like a real great career choice.”

She stared at his shoes. “Yeah, not one I’d suggest. Stick to auto work.”

They settled into a stiff silence. She cleared her throat to break the tension. “So, do you need a ride back?”

“No, I called my buddy Tommy that works out here. He’s picking me up,” He ran both hands through his hair. It stuck out in at least seventeen directions. “I can’t go home right now. You know how my mom is about spiritual crap.”

The corner of her freckled lip tugged at the corner. “Yeah, I know.”

Grizz pushed off the door and stood up straight, itching his nose. “I mean, unless you want-“

“No, no, go with Tommy,” She hit his arm. A bit of blood stained the sleeve he’d had tattooed on him a few years back. The eagle on his forearm had red feathers instead of white. “I’ll see you next week.”

A pair of headlights pulled into the parking lot and turned in behind her Chevelle. Tommy. He honked his horn a few times and Grizz waved at him. “Here’s my ride,” He gave a wave toward the guys. They waved back. Castiel stared at them with furrowed brows. If she didn’t know him, she’d think he was a serial killer. Still could be. She turned and followed him to the passenger side of the old Rabbit and he grabbed the door handle.

“Hey, Grizz,” he turned to face her. She swallowed and picked at the bandana on her wrist. “I’m, uh, glad you’re alright. Shop would be real hard to run without you,” She coughed into her first. “And try to pick your girlfriends better next time.”

He smiled. A real smile. One that made a dimple form in his left cheek. She’d always made fun of it in grade school. She took a breath and their chests were suddenly touching, his arms wrapped around her in a bear hug. Her entire body tensed. Her gut burned with the sudden pressure. If he held her any tighter he’d pop her shoulder back out of place. Her hands hovered over his shoulder blades, his nose was pressed into the side of her head. She blinked wildly into his chest before letting her hands fall on his back. She patted his shirt. “Alright, alright,” she chuckled weakly and moved away. 

“Thanks for saving my ass,” His hand lingered on her arm, right above Stevie Rae’s clawmarks. The area was still tender. 

“Sure thing, kid.” 

The light in his eyes dimmed out a bit and he pulled his arm away with a skittish chuckle. “Okay, well, I'll see you Monday,” He pulled open the door and climbed in. The commuter was almost hilariously small for his tall body. She patted the roof of the Rabbit and it sped away, flying down Old Fort Road and into the night.

She shoved her fists into her pocket and made her way back toward the guys. Castiel was looking anywhere but at her. Dean kicked at the cement with his boot.

“So, Sammy said the wicked witch was part dog.”

Fallon shrugged. “Apparently.”

“She say why she was practicing voodoo?”

“Unfortunately, she skipped that part of her monologue.”

“How did you kill her?” Sam asked. “And how did you know?”

“Took a shot with that witch hunting bullet you gave me. Probably felt like a tickle,” She went to itch her nose but thought better. “She changed into a wolf and said she wanted me for dinner. Then I stabbed her with Virgil’s pocket knife.”

“The dead guy had a silver blade the whole time?” Dean raised his eyebrows. “Damn.” 

“And she didn’t say anything else? Like why she would try and eat her own boyfriend?” 

Fallon’s eyes darted toward the parking lot. When she looked back she met Castiel’s blue eyes, burning through her god damn soul. She swallowed a lump. “Nah, not much else."

“Well, we appreciate the backup,” Sam smiled. Sam was good people. She liked Sam. He held out his hand and she gripped it, giving it a firm shake. “Sorry we dragged you back into it.”

“Yeah, well, if I see y’all again it better be in my shop getting that Impala serviced.”

“We’ll stop by next time we’re in the neighborhood,” Sam nodded. 

“Yeah, hey Fallon, listen,” Dean stepped up and rubbed the back of his neck. “I feel like we all got off on the wrong foot when we first met...”

That’s when it started. The hum. Almost like a mosquito buzzing at her ear. One that wouldn’t quit no matter how many times you swatted it away. She scoffed and shook her head, less about Dean’s apology and more trying to get rid of the noise. 

“...and I just wanted to say that after gutting this werewolf with you - and seeing your work of art over here,” He pointed toward the Chevelle. “That we were wrong to think you were a bitch.”

“You were the only one that thought that.” Sam muttered. 

“Don’t throw me under the bus, alright Sammy?”

“No harm, no foul,” It was louder now. She dug her finger into her ear to make it stop. Still kept buzzing. She sniffed through her nose and winced at the pain. Her gaze began to twitch in all sorts of directions and caught Castiel’s, who watched her closely. Her face screwed up and she looked down.

“I mean; we all know what it’s like to wanna leave this life. Shit, I’ve given it up at least ten times. Sammy went to college just to escape it. And Cas, well, he’s left us quite a few times,” Sam chuckled at that. Castiel didn’t.

Jesus, did these guys ever shut up? She turned and hobbled toward her Chevelle, the buzz so loud now it made her head pound. She needed to get the hell out of there. She felt the vibrations in her bones, like her entire body had been left on vibrate. “Do what you gotta do to save family.”

“We know that,” Sam laughed. “He’s lucky he has you.”

Her head felt like a tire with too much air. A thousand pounds too much. It was unbearable. She could hardly get her lungs to do their job. “Yeah, well, tell that-“ her palm slapped the roof of the Chevelle. Her fingers dug into the paint. Her blood boiled under her skin. She could hardly get the words out. “-to him.”

“Fallon?” Castiel’s voice barely came up over the humming. It was ringing now. Like a shrill, ear-piercing sound. Nails on a chalkboard. His voice was almost too deep to make out. She hunched over with both hands on the roof. Her head hung between her arms. “What’s wrong?”

Her teeth clenched. “I’m-“ she gasped. Her lungs really weren’t working now. Something was pulling every nerve in her calves from the bone. She could feel it. “-fine.” 

“Fallon, look at me.” Dean tugged on her left arm. Too hard. She grunted and tried pulling away. She let go of the car and sank to her knees. He was still holding on her arm. More hands on her back. “Fallon, c’mon, you gotta look at me,” It took every ounce of strength she had to twist her head toward him. She could barely make out his face. Everything was a blur of colors. “Did she cast some kind of spell on you? Hit you with some weird voodoo mumbo-jumbo? You gotta talk to us. What’s going on?”

There were sounds coming out of her throat she didn’t even know she could make. Her heart was coming out of her chest. Her right hand hit the ground. Her nails clawed the pavement. She hunched her back. “I don’t-“

The white hot pain met its peak. Her eyes rolled to the back of her head. She fell back but didn’t feel herself hit the ground. 

Then nothing.

~~

When she opened her eyes again, her car was gone.

The OIT ruins were nowhere to be seen. The brothers and Castiel had disappeared. She wasn’t even sure she was in Oregon anymore. Hell, even the United States.

But she knew this place like the back of her hand.

The red and gold sand. The hundreds of miles of rocky hills. The random patches of dead grass thrown around the desert. Even the god damn pine trees that somehow managed to grow. She knew it like she knew the inside of her shop. She couldn’t point it out on a map. She didn’t even know where it was in the real world. Or if it even really existed other than in her dreams. But she knew it.

She spent almost every night here.

These hills were the reason for every shitty night’s sleep she’d gotten in the past seven years. The bloodshot eyes. The bags on her face. Why she drank until she couldn’t walk before bed. It all came back to this stupid place. It was the same every time, every night she laid down her brain flew her over here. To this wasteland of a place. Why her brain couldn’t have chosen the Bahamas, she didn’t know. 

But this time was different. Not just because her body had thrown her into some kind of coma and was hallucinating this place instead of dreaming about it. No, that wasn’t it. And it wasn’t weird like it was a couple nights ago, when she’d actually heard Dean and Castiel’s voice in her sleep before she’d actually met them; had seen the run-down motel room they'd stayed at. This was a different type of weird.

She stood up, her entire body aching but not like it had been earlier. She lifted up her shirt to check her bandages. Her stomach was completely bare. Not a gash to be found. She checked her arms and legs, even shrugged her shoulders and wrinkled her nose. Everything was in order. Tip-top shape. She smiled. At least her body wasn’t trashed here. 

The mountains looked huge from where she stood. The sun was peeking over the range to the east. There was hardly any light. Must been early morning. Where the hell did dream-her expect her to go? There wasn’t anything here. “Hello?” She yelled. Her voice echoed for miles. She was completely alone. Great.

Usually, she was in a cave. Or at least right in front of a cave. She could look out and see some dried up lake a few miles down the mountainside. Now she was maybe five hundred yards from it. She licked her lips. The cracks in her lips stung from her saliva. She could use a drink of something right about now.

Her limp wasn’t as bad as she made her way to the lake’s edge. It wasn’t so damn cold over here. Couldn’t be less than sixty degrees. Just how she liked it. Her knee hit the sand and she let her hands soak in the water. It seemed pretty clear. Probably wouldn't kill her. She was hallucinating, for god sakes. Her palms cupped and she brought them toward her mouth, her lips parting.

“Stop,” A voice commanded.

Her palms immediately separated, the water spilling back into the lake. Her head whipped around. No one there. It was like someone had rigged a loudspeaker to the mountains and gave it a test drive. 

“Do not drink the water,” It came again. She recognized it now. 

“Why the hell not?” She called back. “I’m thirsty and I don’t see you coming down here with a can of Cola.”

“Do as I say.” 

“You really get off on bossing folks around, don’t you,” She rose from her crouch. “Must be something real important to get me here like this.”

“Walk to the mountain.”

“Which one?” Fallon raised up her arms toward the hundreds of hills around her. “There’s about a billion to choose from.”

“You know which mountain.”

“Actually, lady, I got no clue where this precious ‘mountain’ of yours is. Usually you toss me right in front of that cave and call it good. Not this time.”

“You must find the mountain.”

“How about you send my ass back home so I can get my drink on,” She crossed her arms. “I’m too sober for this shit.”

“Find it.”

Fallon groaned and tossed her head back. You’d think after seven long years of torture this chick would cut her a break. At least it was getting lighter out. She twisted her body around in every direction and scoffed. “I seriously don’t get how you think I’m gonna find this place. I don’t even know where we are!”

Nothing.

“Oh, so now you shut up. Awesome. You’re a real charmer, lady. Rip my body apart from the inside out and then leave me out here to rot.”

Still nothing.

“You gotta be fucking shittin’ me-“ She kicked the dirt. She was wearing combat boots. Combat. Boots. Where were her work boots? “And what am I wearing? A white shirt with khakis? Really? What am I, a tour guide?” 

Silence.

“God damn it, let me live my life!” She screamed. Her cheeks were burning. She panted like she had just run a marathon. She slapped her hands against her forehead and choked out a humorless laugh. This was unbelievable. 

It took a minute to get her shit together. She stared at the bandana on her wrist like she was waiting for it to start talking. Tell her what to do. How to get out of there. But it just sat there. Like it always did. She hung her head and took a shaky breath. Her eyes closed. Maybe when she opened them she’d be back by her car. 

But when she looked up, she was still in the middle of no-where. But this time she felt something. She stared up at the mountain facing the lake and squinted her eyes. She made an imaginary line with her finger from the middle of the mountainside and back to the lake. It seemed right. Then again, everything looked the same to her out here.

“Got nothin’ to lose,” she muttered to herself, taking off toward the mountain. Maybe she’d get lucky and the Queen of the Wasteland would just teleport her to the top.

She’d always had terrible luck.

Her shirt was drenched in sweat by the time she made it halfway up the mountain. She had to sit on a boulder on a ledge to catch her breath, her head between her knees and her lungs on fire. She leaned her head back and stared up at the sky, barely able to keep her eyes open. She hated hiking. Hated it. Why not just walk on flat ground?

It had taken her at least a half an hour to climb, but it hadn’t gotten any lighter outside. It was still that same dark purple and orange haze across the sand, the sun still barely peaking over the horizon. She had to admit, the water of the lake did look kind of cool from the glow. It was like Goose Lake in the summer time sunrise. She and Pa used to drive down the 395 south every Saturday morning just to catch a peek. There was something about the peace of it all that always made his days a little brighter. 

She knew this was the place. Had to be. The view was the same that she’d seen every night for all these years. Her palms clapped her knees as she stood, her legs still a little shaky from the hike up. 

“I don’t know what you want from me,” She yelled. This is what she was reduced to. Screaming at a talking mountain. She was losing her mind. “I know this is the spot. It’s gotta be. So where is it, huh? Where’s your little cave?”

She wasn’t even surprised when no one called back. Figured. She started walking the length of the ledge to find something. Anything. Some type of clue. Her fingers skimmed the mountain wall to her left. The sharp edges scraped against the rough calluses on her fingertips. “C’mon, it’s here somewhere,” Fallon started shoving against boulders, searching for any kind of give in the piles of rocks that made up the cliff. Nothing budged. 

This was ridiculous. She was a mechanic, not a geologist. If this ghost-lady had asked her to take apart the V8 from a Mustang Shelby GT350 piece by piece and put it back together, she’d have it done in 24 hours flat. But this was way out of her element. She let out a growl and raked her fingers through her hair. 

“Son of a-“ She kicked at the stone wall with the heel of her boot. A rock shifted from its place under the pile near the ledge base. She stared at the new hole like Jesus Christ Himself had just pushed away the stone. 

The rocky floor dug into her chest as she dropped to her elbows. She shoved her face as far as she could get it into the gap. She couldn’t see shit, but it was definitely a cave. Her eyes lit up like a set of fresh headlights on a Silverado. 

She got to work, prying each boulder away from the mountain one by one. They tumbled off the cliff behind her, each jagged piece thudding against the dirt and fueling her fire. Each piece of the wall fell away faster than the last. Her forearms ached. A groan followed every rock that fell. It was the most pleasant pain to feel.

At least a hundred rocks fell before the cave showed. Gasps echoed in the pitch black gap. A dead sort of air pulsed from the opening. It was scary as hell, but it was familiar. She let it wash over her like the ocean waves she'd seen on her TV. 

A single boot toed inside. Then another. Not a single thing was visible. But the boots kept walking. A few more feet and a left turn. A hundred more feet and a loop to the right. One more jagged left and a five hundred foot corridor and you’d finally find the end. 

It was always different. Sometimes the cave was more visible than other times. This time was darker. She stopped at the final bend where she always stood. She never went farther. She couldn’t see the end but she knew what was there. “Alright, I’m here,” It came out a hoarse whisper. What a waste of time. “You can take me home, now.”

The silence was unnerving. Her skin crawled. Something wasn’t right. Her head whipped around then back. Someone was watching her. She could feel it.

A vibration. Coming through the walls. It started out soft but grew. Her palms began to tremble. Her blood thudded in her ears. She wanted to run. God, she wanted to run out of there. But her feet were glued to the ground. Like someone poured cement under her boots and left it to dry. Just come out, already, she kept thinking. Over and over. But nothing happened. Just the same force through the walls. 

Then, a light. A quick burst. A blinding, white light that forced her to close her eyes. She could still see it past her eyelids as it grew then faded. But something was left behind. When she opened her eyes, they nearly rolled out of her skull.

A woman was standing there.

Usually, there was the same bullshit sitting in the corner. Some weird looking chest. The Lost Treasure, as she would call it. It looked like that dusty old antique steamtrunk that your grandparents left sitting in the attic for a hundred years. Maybe a thousand, from the looks of this one. She could barely make it out in any other dream. But the lady emitted some kind of white glow that bounced off the walls and shone down on the trunk. It had a gold trim of some kind around the edges. Weird markings carved on the wood. But that all failed in comparison to the blonde lady in the front row. 

“So that’s what you look like,” Fallon muttered. “Pegged you for more the emo-grunge type.” 

Her cheekbones could cut right through an iceberg. “My energy is being translated into a form that the human brain can comprehend,” Her lips didn’t match her words. Like one of those Japanese cartoons that Grizz had tried showing her.

“What are you, some kind of shifter?”

She shook her head. Her hair bounced like in those hair product T.V. commercials. “I am the spiritual manifestation of this biblical monument whose sole purpose is to deliver a message of great importance.”

Fallon squinted her eyes. “That’s what this is? Some kind of freak Jesus shrine?” She shoved her hands into her pockets. “Wow. And here I was hoping to be chosen as the next ‘Pirate of the Caribbean.’”

The woman’s lips thinned into small, tight lines. She said nothing.

“So, that makes you what? An angel?” She scoffed. “Here to instruct me to ‘deliver us from evil’ or something like that?”

“I am here as a warning.” The woman started toward her. Her white dress dragged behind her like an over-the-top wedding skirt. It took up half the cave floor. How was it so clean if it was dragging all over the ground like that? “As I have been every night, attempting to warn you of the impending danger that is upon me. Upon you.”

“Woah, lady, I don’t know nothin’ about some ‘impending danger,’” Fallon put up her hands. “I’m just a lowly mechanic in some hick town.”

“You are much more than you know, Fallon Fawkes,” The woman was still coming at her. Fallon started backing up a bit. Being close to people made her antsy. Especially weird ghost-ladies that put her into comas and made her climb mountains. “This is your destiny. You know what you must do.”

“Actually, I don’t got a clue. Why don’t you go ahead and spell it out for me.”

“You know what you must do,” She repeated. It thundered in her ears. Fallon thought the entire cave might come down. “You must protect the chest.”

“But why-“

“Protect the chest,” Fallon clamped her lips shut. Her hand skimmed the wall as she blindly walked through the slight right turn. The bitch was still on her like glue. “They are closing in on this place. They will soon find it. And, in turn, find you. Protect the chest.”

Fallon tripped over her own boots. She caught herself on the wall and kept going, a little quicker now. Her legs were trembling in her khakis. “But I don’t even know who I’m protecting it from. Can’t you at least give me a little something more here? Something I can work with?” 

The once angelic glow pouring off of her turned to a sickly green and grey color, her dress dissolving away completely right before her eyes and leaving her completely bare chested. She was suddenly cave-man like, hunched over with a thousand sores and gashes covering her body like volcanoes. Her feet and legs were coated in some puke green and brown mush. The stench of a fifty-year-old sewer hit Fallon hard. She walked like some kind of ape, with her arms curled into her sides and her steps staggered like she’d never learned the proper way. Her entire face was covered by some wooden mask, the symbols and markings carved into the face made no sense but was strange and disturbing all the same. She was snarling behind it like a rabid dog.

“What the fuck-“ Fallon’s head smacked against the wall as she missed the last left turn. She all but sprinted the rest of the way, the dim light almost painful after being in the dark for so long. 

“You wanted to know-“ her voice now was straight from the back of her throat. You could hear it scrape out of her mouth like someone pulling themselves out of a well. “-so I’m showing you.”

Fallon's boots skidded to a halt at the ledge. It was more than a five hundred foot drop. She’d never make it. Climbing back down was the only option. 

“Is this what you wanted, Fallon?” The monster’s fingers gripped her forearm. Fallon whipped around and yelped. Her nails drove into her skin. Just like Stevie’s had. She twisted and pulled in all directions but nothing gave. “To know what you were up against? The nightmares that are in store for you?”

“Let go, you psycho!” Fallon went to kick her in the stomach. Big fucking mistake. The thing grabbed her ankle with both hands and studied her with yellow eyes through the two holes in the mask. She was left on her bum leg. The heel of her boot nearly hung off the edge of the rocks. She had to grab onto the thing’s wrist to keep some kind of balance. 

“Protect the chest, Fallon,” She pulled the mask off with one of her hands. Her hair was a mass heap of brown and grey, with a massive crater where her nose should have been. Her teeth were razor sharp and rotted away. And her eyes-holy fuck, her eyes- were a deep yellow set around a puddle of black, that stared straight into her soul and beyond. Fallon’s heart actually stopped beating in her chest. “Save us all.”

Her claws hit her chest and Fallon went flying off the mountain, her arms wailing in thin air and hands grabbing at nothing. Her stomach flipped in her gut. Her pulse thudded in her ears. 

She managed to twist her body around just in time to meet the ground. 


	10. Fallon

Her lungs sputtered like a god damn garden hose.

Her legs were tingling. Her vision a blurrier than normal. She heaved and gasped. How was she still alive? Why was it so dark?

“Fallon? Fallon, calm down,” A hand gripped her shoulder. She wretched away as best she could. She wasn’t about to let that…thing touch her again. Hell, no. 

“Fallon, it’s us. It’s Sam,” She blinked wildly at the faces around her. It was pitch black but the moonlight brought a chiseled jawline to view. A long mop of dark hair. The shine of the Chevelle’s paint. But no ape-woman. No treasure chest. And no weird-ass cave. Her breathing settled a bit and she let her head fall back on something firm. She was back in Klamath. In the parking lot. Back in reality. Thank god. 

“Holy shit,” she muttered, her hand slapping against her forehead. Her heart beat was so loud it sounded like two. “Gotta lay off the LSD, I guess.” 

“What the hell was that?” Dean’s face was starting to clear up. “We thought you were dead.”

“So did I,” Fallon muttered. She turned her head and a flap of fabric tickled her face. What the hell? She glanced up and stared at a ratty old trench coat. She was sprawled across that angelic accountant’s lap.

“What in the god damn-“ She leapt out of his arms like she’d been burned. Her eyes bore holes through his stupid blue ones. “They teach you anything about personal space?”

She didn’t need a flashlight to see the bright blush that grew on his stubbled face. “I-you collapsed onto the cement. I was standing behind you,” He cleared his throat. “I tried to heal you but my grace was being blocked by something.”

Fallon tried standing up but her legs had other ideas. “God, damn it.”

Castiel’s eyebrows furrowed. “Fallon, let me try and-“

“Do not,” she warned him. “use your mojo on me.”

“Fallon, what happened?” Sam grabbed her shit arm and helped her up. Shit, she’d forgotten about that shoulder. She felt her nerves scream as they managed to lean her up on the back driver’s door. 

Fallon huffed a breath. Her heart was finally slowing down but her skin was still white hot. Her gut wasn’t any better. Her hand flattened over her shirt and she groaned. “Don’t know,” She wasn’t lying. Her head hung over the roof the car. “Usually doesn’t happen when I’m awake.”

“When you’re awake?” Dean asked. The three of them studied her. “And why couldn’t Cas bring you out of it?”

“You think if I knew it’d still be happening?” Her voice carried and they flinched. She sighed. “I have these dreams,” Shut up, Fallon. Shut up. “Every night, almost. I don’t… know what they mean. Usually just about this chest in this cave or something. And I’m sure the twelve racks I put away before bed ain't helping none. But this time was-“ That monster’s nose-less face flashed in her head. Her eyes squeezed shut. “-it was just different. More involved.”

“So, what, you toss a few back and dream about some treasure chest?” 

“Not just that. The chest- it talks.”

“I mean; it is a dream,” Sam shrugged. “Dreams can be weird.”

“Yeah, I dream about weird shit all the time,” Dean said. “Comes with being a hunter. You see shit you can’t forget about. I still have nightmares about the demon flight years back.”

“Trust me, I’d remember some weird steamtrunk from biblical times,” Fallon said. 

Castiel had perked up now. “What do you mean ‘biblical times.’” 

“That’s what it told me,” Fallon shrugged. “Or ‘she,’ I guess.”

“What does this chest look like?” Castiel raised an eyebrow.

“It’s uh-“ Her eyes squeezed shut, trying to picture it clearly. “It’s gold. With these weird engravings in the sides. Two bars poking out the sides…” She thought for another second. “And some birds on top? Or something like that. They got wings and sit on the lid.”

Castiel looked like she’d just told him Santa Clause wasn’t real. His chapped lips parted. She could practically see smoke coming out of his ears from his brain working overtime. 

“Seraphs,” The accountant nodded. “They are seraphs of the Lord.” 

“Cas?” Dean and Sam faced him. Fallon gaped at him.

Castiel turned toward the boys. “What do you know about the Ark of the Testament?”

“The Ark of the who?” Fallon shook her head. “You know what this thing is?”

“The Ark of the Testament. Also known as the ‘Ark of the Covenant,’” Castiel sighed. “It was first mentioned in the Book of Exodus. Constructed by Moses under the command of God on Mount Sinai.”

“I actually think I remember reading something about that,” Sam nodded. “Moses had two of his followers build it. It was supposed to hold the tablet with the Ten Commandments.”

“Actually, Moses built the Ark himself,” Castiel rubbed his hand over his chin. “Bezalel and Oholiab were instructed to help, but retreated after my Father made an appearance during construction.”

Fallon stared at him with a slack jaw. 

“Must’ve been big if Chuck himself popped in for a visit,” Dean nodded. He sounded sarcastic. 

“The Testament was very important to him. I was told it was strictly made to house the tablets, but…”

“But?” Dean pushed. 

“There are rumors traded among the angels. About its intended purpose,” Castiel stared off into the distance. Again. He did that a lot. “There are reasons to believe that God may have created the Ark of the Covenant to hide something other than the tablets.”

“And you have no idea what it could be?” Sam asked.

“Angels were given very little knowledge about the Ark of the Testament. I’m sure someone even as high-ranking as Michael or Lucifer were not aware of what our Father had planned,” Castiel sighed. “Even its current location is unknown.”

“So why is this thing playing telephone with Fallon?” 

“The design and construction of the Ark was very advanced. It required immense amounts of power from not only heaven but from God himself,” Castiel stepped toward Fallon. His head tilted to the side. Like a cat when it’s curiosity is getting the best of it. “What does this entity say to you?”

It took Fallon a minute to find her voice. Her brain was mush. It was too much shit to process at once. “Uh, she tells me I need to…protect it. From danger. That I have to find it and save it.”

“The Ark could be putting out some kind of fail-safe that calls out for help when it’s in trouble,” Sam offered. 

“Yeah, but why did it choose Fallon?” Dean crossed his arms.

“I am not sure,” Castiel said. “That remains mysterious.”

“I’ll tell you one thing.” Dean nodded his head. “This thing’s obviously scared of something. And I don't want to know what happens if it gets trashed.”

“We can’t do anything until we find it,” Sam ran a hand through his hair. “What if-what if Fallon came back with us to the bunker? Until we figured all of this out.”

That hit her like a shot. Her neck about snapped from shaking it so hard. “Oh, hell no.”

Dean scoffed. “C’mon, hotshot. It’s not so bad. Lebanon is just like Lakeview,” He shrugged. “It’s a helluva lot better than motel hopping in random cities between hunts.”

“I ain’t going with you, a bunch of strangers, to some ‘bunker’ in ass-crack Kansas,” Fallon pushed off the car and slapped the pocket of her pants. Her keys jingled in the denim. “I was just fine before y'all came along.”

“Fallon, the Ark of the Testament is an ancient artifact of God Himself that is reaching out to you through methods of direct contact,” Castiel’s blue eyes widened. “Clearly, it is speaking to you for a reason. We need to find out what that reason is.”

“Not to mention you just passed out in a school parking lot and had a five-minute hallucination,” She half expected Sam to try and catch the Chevelle door as she opened it. He didn’t. “It’s gonna happen again. What if you’re working next time? Or alone? Or driving? You’ll run this thing off the road.”

“I could drive these streets with my god damn eyes closed,” She collapsed onto the seat and yanked the door shut. But instead of Sam stopping it, it was Dean.

“You’re making a big mistake.” Dean warned. Fallon rolled her eyes. “You can’t run from this. It’s not gonna let you. You of all people should know that.”

“I can take care of myself,” Her knuckles turned white on the handle. “Now get your grimy ass hunter hands off my car.”

Dean let the door go and it slammed shut. Sam was saying something to her through the window but it sounded like a string of random noises. The engine shook the car as it roared to life and she cranked the window down. “This is insane. At least let one of us drive your car back.”

Her fist gripped the shifter handle and she threw it into reverse. She threw daggers at them with her eyes. “Nobody drives the Chevelle but me,” She punched the clutch and gas pedal and let the wheels spin out, burnt rubber filling the air as the Chevelle lurched backward. Sam barely got out of the way as she peeled out. A hundred feet in reverse she shifted into first, twisting the wheel as far left as it would go and forcing the Chevelle to drift a 180 toward the entrance. She was already in second gear by the time she hit Old Fort Road. Third gear halfway down. Fourth at the right turn onto Highway 39. The shifter was grinding into fifth by the time she merged onto the 140 West, leaving that stupid campus and that old 67 Sport Sedan in her dust. Her back rounded out against the seat and she let her arms relax. Minus her left shoulder. 

But no matter how hard she tried, how many deep breaths she took, she couldn’t get her nerves to simmer down. She figured with at least a hundred miles between her and the Ghost Busters, she’d feel a little better. She even had some answers about her weird ass dreams. Kind of. She’d saved Grizz, she was still alive. Save a couple minor scratches and bruises. And on Monday she’d be back in her shop, doing the same thing she’d done for the past nine years and counting. It would all go back to how it’d always been.

So why was she still so fucking bugged?

~~

Her seventeen hundred square foot house felt huge when she finally made it back. 

She dropped her keys on the glass end table right next to the door and stared at the living room. The two couches that hadn’t been replaced since the seventies. The old wood rocking chair to her right. The stained carpet from before she was born. The giant wall of tile-sized mirrors behind the couch on the left. The same dusty entertainment center with a thousand vinyl’s piled into the cabinets. Right through the living room on the other side was the kitchen. She didn’t even know if any of the appliances still worked.

She toed off her boots and passed right by the stairs like she always did. Stairs were too difficult with her leg. The last time she’d been up there was almost thirteen years ago, when she’d packed up her shit and left this place behind. To be a hunter. What a stupid idea. She made a left past the long couch and hobbled into the master bedroom, damn near ripping off her t-shirt and flinging it onto the floor. The fabric she’d used to patch up her stomach were stuck to the cuts. She could feel it pull at the dried blood as she moved. She needed to clean everything out. Instead, she sat on the edge of the mattress.

The walls needed new paint. The off-white primer they’d been painted originally was starting to chip off in some places. Cobwebs sat in every corner of the room. The whole house, even. There wasn’t a point in cleaning. She was the only one that saw inside this dump. Come to think of it, no one really had. Except the cops that had to investigate the house and garage after everything happened. Grizz a handful of times. Ma. She scoffed. The last time her Ma had walked through that front door was right after Fallon had first learned to walk. Her first word had been “Momma” and that bitch didn’t even bat an eyelash. 

Pa had taken down most of her pictures when she’d walked out. He’d shoved them in the attic above the garage out back, in some moldy old box in the farthest corner from the skylight. She’d never even bothered to go out there and look for them. But when she came back after five years and had thrown her shit into the utility closet near the bedroom door she found out that he hadn’t gotten rid of them all.

Hung on the wall across from the bed and to the right of that little closet was a picture. A family picture. Taken sometime right after Fallon had been born. Hardly even able to sit up yet. Pa had to prop her up with his fingers to keep her from falling over. His entire hand was almost as big as she was. And Ma, well, looked like Ma. They were sitting in that old swing on the front porch, back when the white metal hadn't been rusted over. Her Pa was grinning like a fool down at his daughter. Fallon was giggling about something, probably whatever the picture-taker was doing to get her attention. And Ma was actually smiling, with dimples and teeth and a sparkle in her dark eyes. The whole nine yards. But she wasn’t looking at Fallon. Or even at the camera.  She was looking at Pa.

She hated the picture the second she saw it. She wanted to burn it. Wanted to rip it off the wall and chuck it as far as she could down South I Street. But every time she’d tried her hands wouldn’t move. Her freckles would twitch. She hated having it be the last thing she saw every night before she passed out but nine years later it still hung there. Pa had obviously liked having it there. And it was her Pa’s room, after all. So it stayed. Like everything else.

She stared at the carpet before pushing herself up. Her ribs pushed against her abdomen and made her nerves scream. Her bare feet shuffled to the back corner of the bedroom and leaned against the wall. That mahogany shutter covering the smaller doorway was coated in a thick layer of dust. 

Her legs made to walk away. Forget she even tried. But she pivoted back and pushed the wood away, her free hand fumbling in the dark little room to find the light switch. She had to flick it a few times before the bulb actually turned on.

The closet still smelled like him. After all these years. A musky, dry scent complete with coffee grounds, wet lumber and tire rubber. It fought into her pores and made her heart flutter. All his shirts. His blue jeans that he insisted on hanging up. The one tie he owned slung over the back a few hangers on the wood rack. The sweat-stained Chicago Cubs cap forgotten on the floor. The butt of his grandad’s sawed-off shotgun hanging off the top shelf. His muddy old work boots sitting underneath a pair of his favorite coveralls. Nothing had changed. Like he’d never left.

_ Al wouldn’t have wanted you to dwell like this. It isn’t healthy.  _ Grizz’s words played through her head over and over.  _ You have to move on. _

Fallon yanked the shutter closed with a growl. She did it a little too hard. It ran off the track and leaned a bit into the closet, held up by that cluster of empty hangers that held the tie. It split a bit in the middle of one of the panels. She blinked at it. A lifetime passed. Her Pa had made that shutter by hand.

She laid on the couch that night. She’d say sleep, but that would've been generous. Just stared at the stucco ceiling with the end table lamp still on. When the sun started rising she hobbled to the front porch and watched it from the swing. She didn’t eat at Jerry’s that morning. Or Subway for lunch. For dinner she sat in front of the TV and watched some movie on the Lifetime channel. Her stomach didn’t even growl during the Denny’s commercials. 

Monday came. She went to work like always. She’d re-wrapped her stomach but her body still hurt like hell when she tried to lift her arms. When she asked Grizz to finish up the wheel bearing adjustment he looked at her like she’d just started spouting off German. When he asked her why, she’d just shrugged. “Not like you’ll screw it up. You learned everything you know from me.” She handled tire rotations and battery swaps for the rest of the day.

By Thursday she and Grizz still hadn’t talked about what happened at OIT. She knew he wanted to. Could see it in his eyes when he showed up to work every morning. But she was done thinking about it. Done talking about it. As far as she was concerned, the Winchester brothers and their plus one didn’t exist. 

Friday night was Ryan Virgil’s funeral. They found all seven bodies of the missing guys on Sunday morning after someone reported smoke coming out of the ground. All of them were pretty badly burned from the flames but still could be identified. There was an eighth one, but the body was too badly charred to figure out who it was. They called it another victim of the OIT serial killer and had it sent out of state for testing. 

The service was at the First Baptist Church. Half the town and Grizz paid respects. Fallon threw back whiskey at the Eagles Nest.

On Saturday night, Grizz called the house phone. He was the only person who had the number. She was halfway through a twelve pack and feeling a buzz. She wasn’t gonna answer but she changed her mind on the last ring. “Ever since last weekend you’ve been freaking me out,” His voice was softer than usual. His usual ‘I’m worried sick, please let me help you’ type of tone. He hardly ever used it. “I’m used to you being cranky, like, always, but now it’s like you’re not sleeping a lick.”

“I’m fine, Grizz,” Her ‘z’ on ‘Grizz’ slurred an extra couple of seconds. “Never been better.”

“You’ve got more bags under your eyes than my dad had of THC extract,” He sighed. “Faye, we gotta talk. I’ll bring over some wine and we-“

“No. No, no,” Fallon wagged her finger even though he couldn’t see. “Don’t bring that shit over here. Stay home.”

“Fallon, c’mon-“

“If I see your scrawny ass, I’m pullin’ out Pa’s gun,” She about broke the phone with her thumb when she pressed the ‘end’ button. 

Truth was, she’d slept a grand total of 7 hours since the Saturday before. Kept afloat with mass amounts of black coffee and extra syrup on her pancakes. The times she had actually shut her eyes had been by accident, and each time featured that stupid trundle screaming at her. That psycho monster lady hadn’t made another appearance since the parking lot incident. Fallon figured she couldn’t come around if she didn’t sleep. 

On Monday night she swallowed her pride and went to the hospital. The gashes on her stomach were oozing some green and yellow shit and burning her alive. She’d never cleaned them properly after OIT. They were infected. They gave her some meds for the infection, cleaned and stitched them and told her to come back in two weeks. She threw the bottle in the trash on the way out the door. 

On Wednesday her cell phone rang. She was re-aligning a Nissan Altima while Grizz was elbow-deep in a turbo install on an older-gen Honda. She wiped the grease off her hands with a towel and stared down at the screen with a yawn. Sam Winchester. She let that one go to voicemail.

“Hey, it’s Sam. Sam, uh, Winchester,” No shit, Sherlock. “I know you probably have stuff going on, but I just wanna make sure you’re doing okay. We should really try and figure all of this out. Give us all some peace of mind. We’re going crazy in Kansas trying to piece it together,” He sighed into the phone. “Give me a call. A text. A letter. Something. Anything. Take care.”

She deleted the message.

On Friday night, there was a live concert in the Indian Village bar area. Some blue grass band from Burney Falls was supposed to play a two hour set at nine. Grizz asked if she wanted to go. She told him no. “C’mon, you love blue grass,” He pulled down the door to Bay One while she watched. She couldn’t pull them down without struggling anymore. “You always say it’s the last true form of country music.”

“I’m going home,” She said simply. They both knew something was wrong. It wasn’t a secret. “I’ll see you Monday.”

Grizz stared at her for a few minutes before sighing. He threw the shop keys at her and started for his Subaru. “Yeah, see you Monday.”

On Saturday night she ran out of beer. That never happened. She always remembered to pick some up on her way home from the shop if she was running low. She’d been forgetting a lot of shit recently. She parked her truck in the Safeway parking lot and hurried inside to grab her usual. Except tonight they were out. Jennie was a deer in headlights when she limped over to the check-out stand to ask about it. Well, more like demand it. So, she drove to the opposite end of town and payed Art at Welch’s Grocer for a 32 rack. On her way back through downtown, she passed her shop. 

Fallon pulled into the drive and stared at it for a while. It looked so different at night. Not a single light on. The junk cars out front made it look abandoned. The flood lights on the store sign had gone out a long time ago. She never had them replaced. Didn’t need to. Everyone within a 100 mile radius already knew where she was. Her eye roamed the garage until they settled on the door to Bay One. 

She left the Chevelle at the shop when she wasn’t using it. She didn’t trust it sitting out in the open when she wasn’t looking. Not because anyone in town would fuck with it, but some out-of-towner might drive by and get curious. And the garage behind the house was a no-fly zone. So Bay One was where the Chevelle spent most of her days. 

The engine shook the walls as she tore out of the drive, leaving a cloud of dust behind her as she roared out of town. Her shop was right on the 140 West, and if you kept following it long enough it branched off into a hundred different back roads. Her favorite was a one-lane highway that hugged Drew’s Reservoir about 30 miles outside of town. Cops hardly drove out that way. It was desolate and isolated and the perfect spot to let the Chevelle run. 

She’d been splitting the night at 120 mph for a while now, creeping in on the fork that broke into the old county highway. She rolled her neck and twitched her fingers around the shifter, prepping herself for the drift. It was tight but it felt so good under her wheels. Like a hot knife through warm butter. 

“Fallon-“ her head snapped around at her name. She was in a god damn car. Going 120. In the middle of the night. Did she leave the radio on?

“Fallon,” Fuck. She knew that voice.

That biblical bitch.

“No, no, no, mother fu-“ Fallon growled.

“Fallon-“ it was like she was right at her ear. She let go of the shifter to swat at nothing on her shoulder. 

“You’re not real,” Fallon was shouting now, only partly because of the engine. “Get out of my head.”

“Fallon-“ The buzzing. It was back. This was bad. She couldn’t just slam on the breaks going this fast. “You know what you must do.”

“Leave me alone,” She eased her boot as calmly as she could on the brake. She’d just have to pull over and deal with this. But when she toed the brake pedal, nothing slowed. Her speedometer still read 120. “What the hell?” She pumped the pedal harder. Nothing. She came up on the fork. She lurched onto the 1-21. Her palms started to sweat.

“Put my brakes back, you psycho bitch!” She stomped down. Hard. “I ain’t gonna be much good to anyone if I’m dead!” 

The fire in her veins. The drums in her head. The shrill ring in her ears. It all came back. Exactly as it had before. Only a little faster this time. Harder. The headlights started to blur. Her knuckles turned sheet white. This wasn’t real. This wasn’t real. This wasn’t real. 

“You no longer need to resist. Let go,” Her grip slackened. Her teeth gritted. Her heart beat with no rhythm. “Let it go.”

The next thing she saw was a sharp right turn and an empty field. 

She didn’t even feel the Chevelle roll off the road.


	11. Castiel

The weeks following their departure from rural Oregon were tense.

It seemed they had solved one case only to stumble across another. One that proved to offer far higher stakes than anything else they had investigated in the past few months. Biblical crises had not been a primary concern as of late, until Fallon had presented them one on top of a chrome dish. He believed that was how the saying went. 

In fact, the entire existence of the Ark of the Testament had almost alluded his memories completely. His Father had created it so many centuries ago that it was thought to be just another artifact that proved benign to their efforts. He wasn’t entirely sure that many of his brothers and sisters were even aware of its presence on Earth. Some believed it to have been destroyed by Babylonians when they pillaged Jerusalem in 587 B.C. Others thought the Babylonians removed the Ark along with other artifacts from Jerusalem and stowed it away somewhere in Babylon. And some were convinced that the Ark, like other tales and triumphs told of the Lord, was entirely fabricated and never actually was constructed. Before recently, Cas was unsure what he believed. There were so many other pressing matters to attend to, both in heaven and on Earth, that he never had much time to contemplate such trivial gossip between celestial beings. 

Then Fallon came.

It had been quite the scene. The parking lot of the college campus had been dark but Cas could see the distress overriding Fallon’s features. Based off of the very small amount of time he had known her he concluded that she was, at best, a very stoic and sheltered woman. In a way, she reminded him of Dean in the years he had first met him. But the moment her eyebrows first furrowed and her gaze became distraught he was certain something was amiss. 

He knew she was injured, of course. To what extent, he was unsure, but there were abrasions present on her body. He was much more observant than he led on. But this was different. The way she leaned over the door of her vehicle and collapsed to the ground, he knew this could not be from the entity she had just slayed. He had been pushed aside by Sam and Dean, taking a place behind her as she writhed on her heels. And then she had fallen back. Right into his arms.

“What the hell’s wrong with her?” Dean was leaned over the top of her, pinching her chin with his thumb and forefinger and turning her head side to side. She made no protest. “Witch’s spell?”

“I’ll get the spell book,” Sam was up in an instant, his long legs making impossibly huge strides toward the Impala. Dean pressed his fingers to her jugular vein. 

“She’s got a pulse, at least,” Dean said. “God, damn it, Fallon, what’d she do to you.”

“It is not a witch’s curse,” Cas placed a hand to her forehead and listened. But every time he tried to preview her thoughts something pushed him back out. It was a shield unlike anything he’d ever seen. But the design and effectiveness was one built off of Enochian scripture. “It’s something stronger.”

“Demons?” Dean asked.

“No. Possibly angels,” Sam had re-joined them now. Cas turned his torso until he could clearly see her face. It was the first time she had shown any measure of peace. 

“What would angels want with her?” 

Cas didn’t have a good answer. 

Fallon didn’t want to be healed. She made that clear on multiple occasions. However, given the circumstances, he hoped she could make an exception. But every attempt of his grace to mend her both mentally and physically was blocked by that same shield. It was apparent that the force did not want Fallon to be disturbed. 

And then she awoke. 

He had been relieved. But Fallon was not as enthusiastic as he. And when she began to describe some chest from ‘biblical times’ he was certain he knew the precise item she was referring to. The infamous Ark of the Testament. 

The Ark.

He knew as much about the Ark as the Winchester’s. The moment they returned to the bunker he began pouring into every possible text, thousands upon thousands of pages within the library shelves that could offer some sort of clue as to what exactly the Ark of the Testament wanted. Or, more importantly, where it was being kept. But it seemed the Men of Letters had very little knowledge on the subject, either. After almost three days of research the most he could find was from the King James version of the Bible. And most of the text was information he was already well aware of.

They no longer had the luxury of merely asking other angels about the artifact. Without heaven as a reference point, they were forced to start entirely from scratch. It was frustrating beyond belief, far more than the likes of Sam or Dean could even begin to comprehend. Here he was, a celestial force constructed from the Lord Himself, reduced to combing through text written by humans to gain information. About a biblical artifact. He should at least know where the thing was being hidden. And that fact even alluded him.

By the end of the first week they had almost nothing to show from their efforts. Sam had collected a few bits of information from the Internet and compiled them together. It hardly added up to a few pages. The only thing Dean managed to conjure up was the location of a new diner near the center of Lebanon. 

On that Saturday evening Sam had begun to suffer from what they referred to as ‘cabin fever.’ He was hunched over the top of his computer, scrolling through a webpage and groaned. “Alright, I’ve looked at every possible website on the Ark. No one knows anything.”

“There’s gotta be something,” Dean’s voice was muffled by a mound of hamburger in his mouth. He motioned toward the stacks of books pilled on the table. “There’s nothin’ in those books that says anything?”

“Maybe if you weren’t so busy stuffing your face hole with hamburger meat and actually contribute-“ Cas muttered.

“Hey, a guy's gotta eat!” 

“Alright, alright. I think we all need a break,” Sam shut his computer and leaned back in his chair. “Why don’t we get out for a bit and get a drink or something?”

“I’m in,” Dean crammed the remaining portion of his meal into his mouth and crumpled up the wrapper. “Could really go for a Johnnie Walker right about now,” He tossed the wrapper from his place across the table with a flick of his wrist. It hit Cas on the tip of his nose. “Bullseye,” Dean pushed himself up and made to leave the room.

Cas glared up from the pages of the Babylonian text he was reading. He snagged the wrapper from the table top and stared at it in his palm. His grace flowed through his fingertips and fused with the paper, the scraps slowly transforming before his eyes. His lip turned slightly as condensation from what was now a snowball dripped between his fingers. 

“Dean,” Dean turned his head just in time. Cas pulled his arm back and threw the snowball. It hit right on the mark: just below the curve of his nose and across his left cheek. He tumbled back on his heels and nearly fell over. The water dripped down his reddened face and soaked the top of his plain black t-shirt. Sam snorted.

“What the fuck, Cas?” Dean shrieked like a small child.

Cas smiled. “It might be a little icy out, Dean. Maybe you should get a jacket.”

“You son of a-“

“Okay, c’mon kids, let’s get going before you kill each other,” Sam managed to get out between spurts of laughter. He stood up and started shoving a bitter Dean toward his bedroom. “Better change your shirt.” 

They were only a few places to drink alcohol in Lebanon. ‘The Corner’ was less of a bar and more of a bar-be-que restaurant. ‘Lyon’s Saloon’ was, as Dean had called it, ‘a nursing home with booze.’ And the ‘Beauty Bar’ was not a bar at all. Cas would never forget the expression on the hairdressers faces when Dean burst through their door demanding a round of ‘Saki Bombs’ for everyone. This left them with one option: a place called ‘Pooches.’

The bar was usually fairly quiet. A few patrons would sit along the counter and sip at their drinks, talking with the bartender about the current events in town. A couple of younger couples would be playing each other at pool near the back corner of the room. A group of rough-and-tumble types of men would sometimes be sipping from a pitcher of beer at one of the bigger booths, the embroidery on their leather jackets usually mentioning something about them being ‘Hard-Assess.’ But save for those few regulars, the small-town tavern was a very quaint and calm atmosphere.

It seemed this Saturday night was an exception.

The pub was packed with people, more so than he’d ever seen. There were people wall-to-wall, the bar counter almost hidden behind the crowd of drunken bodies. The three of them stood close together near the entrance, watching as a woman finished her beer and slammed her glass down onto the table. She threw her fists into the air and let out something similar to a warriors cry.

“Jesus, where did all these people come from?” Dean yelled over the noise. A group of men entered the bar behind them and pushed passed them, jumping up and down and yelling in excitement at the sight of their friends. “Didn’t even think Lebanon had this many people.”

Sam pointed at a banner hanging above the bar on the ceiling. ‘Happy 10th Anniversary, Poochy!’ it read in big, bold letters. “I think I saw this in the paper last week. They’re serving dollar shots until midnight.”

A dark haired woman wearing a low-cut tank top passed by and winked at Dean. His jaw may as well have scraped the beaten hardwood floor. “Well, we better get up there ‘fore they run out of the good stuff.” He followed behind her and offered them a half-hearted wave. “I’ll find a table.”

Sam and Cas sighed in unison as he walked away. Sam pulled out his wallet and nodded toward the cluster of tables near the back wall. Most of them were already taken. “Find us somewhere to sit. I’ll head to the bar-”

“I’ll get the drinks,” Cas stopped him and rummaged through the pocket of his trench coat. “You find a table.”

Sam raised his eyebrows. “You sure?”

“Yes,” He held his wallet tight in his fist. It originally belonged to Jimmy Novak before Cas had begun to use him as a vessel. The seams were torn and the leather was worn down to almost nothing. But the raised initials engraved into the material reminded him of the man that once wore that trench coat. He owed a great deal to Jimmy. Carrying his wallet was his way of honoring his memory. “What do you want to drink?”

“Just get me a Pale Ale on tap.” Sam clapped him on the shoulder and began to shimmy his way through the crowd to the left. Cas took a deep breath before fighting his way through the middle.

The bar counter was almost triple the volume than the front entrance. Sam would have never been able to order anything over the noise. The bartender struggled to hear him. “Two Pale Ales on tap and a-“ What did he say? “-Johnnie Walker?”

The bartender nodded and tossed three glasses onto the counter top. Cas flipped through his wallet and pulled a twenty dollar bill from the pocket. He leaned against the wood and let his gaze wander over the crowd. It mainly consisted of younger people. Many of whom, Cas was certain, were not of the proper age to be participating in such activities. Most of their excitement more than likely derived from the thrill of ‘breaking the law.’ He had quietly busted a good half of the patrons for underage drinking until his eyes settled on the woman next to him.

The first thing he saw was blonde hair. The color of sand on a beach, peppered with flakes of brown throughout. It was done up in a loose knot on top of her head, a few whisps hanging in light curls around her neck. She had her back to him and was attempting to engage in a conversation with the woman to her right. His breathing quickened. Surely he was seeing things.

“Fallon?” He touched her shoulder in an attempt to get her attention. Her neck twisted around to gaze on him. But the face that looked back did not house a thousand freckles like the mechanic from rural Oregon. This face was plain. With ruby red lips. And young. Very young.

“I’m sorry,” he held up his hand and chuckled lightly. Her stained lips curled into a smile. “I thought you were someone else.”

“I can be anyone you want me to be, hot-stuff,” She winked one of her sapphire eyes. His fingers fidgeted against the counter top. “I'll gladly go by 'Fallon'.” 

He chuckled and shook his head as the bartender slid his drinks over. He handed him the bill and began to assemble the glasses in front of him. “Thank you, but that’s not necessary.”

“Then call me by my real name,” She held out her hand toward him and quirked an eyebrow. “Names Alice.” 

He glanced down at her fingers before taking them in his own. “Cas,” He smiled.

“So, what’s up with the trench coat? You some sort of detective?” She yelled over the crowd. Her stare was nearly glazed over under the neon lights. One more round of tequila and she would begin to have slightly difficulty walking in her high-heeled shoes. 

“Something like that,” The bartender handed him back the change. He waved it away. “Keep the change. And get Ms. Alice a glass of your lightest ale,” The bartender nodded and raised the bills in acknowledgement.

“What, you don’t think I can handle hard alcohol?” Alice gasped. She had to grip the counter to keep her balance. “I’m offended, Detective Cas.”

He gathered his drinks and smirked. “Have a good night, Alice.” 

On Monday morning Dean found a case. It was six hours away in a town called Checotah, Oklahoma, where a man’s vehicle had been found but the owner was nowhere to be seen. “Twenty bucks says it’s a woman in white,” Dean sang on their way to the Impala.

“The guy was single and lived alone. There’s no way,” Sam shook his head.

“Bet me,” Dean said.

“Fine.” They shook on it.

It was a demon.

They were back on the road by Wednesday afternoon. The car had been mostly quiet save for the soft drone of the tape that Dean played on the speakers when Sam spoke. “I think we should call Fallon.”

Cas broke his stare from the back seat window to turn toward the passenger seat. Dean looked at his brother with an incredulous look. “Why? Your psychic sight kickin’ back in or what?”

The younger brother scoffed. “Maybe it’s a waste of time, but what choice do we have?” Sam shifted in his seat and pulled out his cell phone. “We don’t know anything. Cas can’t find a single piece of useful information in those books in the bunker. There’s nothing but myths and rumors on the internet. Plus, you saw what happened to her. I really don’t think she's safe right now.” 

“Yeah, well, hate to rain on your parade there, Sammy, but Fallon doesn’t strike me as the type to reach out for help.” 

“But we should try,” He found her number in his phone and took a deep breath. “Here goes nothing,” He pressed the phone to his ear.

“You’re wastin’ your time,” Dean made a right and merged onto the next stretch of highway. Cas leaned from his seat and over the front bench. Sam switched ears so Cas could listen in.

It rang seven times. A pause. Then, Fallon’s deep drawl emitted from the receiver. 

‘This is Fallon. If you’re calling about your car, I’ll get back to you when I can. Anything else, don’t bother talking,’ Sam exchanged a weathered glance with Cas. ‘And don’t leave some long message, I have shit to do.’ The tone rang. 

“Hey, it’s Sam. Sam, uh, Winchester,” Dean shoved him in the arm. Sam shrugged and made a face. “I know you probably have stuff going on, but I just wanna make sure you’re doing okay. We should really try and figure all of this out. Give us all some peace of mind. We’re going crazy in Kansas trying to figure it out.” 

“Not as crazy as Dorothy over there.” Dean muttered. 

Sam sighed. “Give me a call. A text. A letter. Something. Anything. Take care,” He hung up and stared at the screen.

“Really? ‘Take care’? What are you, her mom?”

“What else am I supposed to say, Dean? ‘Get your ass over to Lebanon so we can grill you for information’?”

“Yes!” Dean yelled.

Sam barked out a laugh. “You are so insensitive sometimes.”

“Do you think she will return your call?” Cas asked. Sam shrugged.

“I don’t know,” He crossed his arms and settled further into his seat. “Guess we’ll find out.”

He wanted to think that he was overreacting to such little intel. Dean thoroughly enjoyed telling him so while he watched him tear apart the shelves of the library. Even Sam, who tended to fall into the category of caring ‘too much’ about certain affairs, was not treating this situation as serious as he imagined. If there was something seriously amiss, they would know. The Ark would have reached out to someone else. There would be some sort of sign in the world. A prophet would be warned. Seals would be broken. Supernatural activity would be peaking at an all-time high. New threats would emerge. They had been faced with earth-shattering enemies many times before. If this were a similar case, it would be no different.

But Cas had a feeling. A ‘gut feeling,’ per say; something he had never felt as an angel but now experienced quite often in a human vessel. What if the Ark was only reaching out to Fallon because it could only communicate with her? What if for some strange reason, Fallon had been chosen as some sort of prophet-like being and was being used as a platform for direct communication? What if the threat was so great that it could only reach out to a select number of people in fear that the enemy would gain ground if they knew its whereabouts? There were countless paths that this story could follow and not a single one provided a positive outcome. And he had not a single clue which one it could be. If there was one thing that Cas despised, it was being in the dark.

And then it was Sunday evening. 

Dean had actually decided to help for once, devouring his way through a large bag of potato chips and studied his laptop while Sam read over a text. Cas was thumbing through a Men of Letters account on a past encounter with a witch that exerted ‘angel-like characteristics.’ It was actually quite humorous. All was fairly quiet, save for Dean’s excessively loud chewing. Until Sam’s phone began to ring.

The entire table shook from their collective jump. Sam nearly dropped his phone in an attempt to pick it up. He glanced at the screen.

“Who is it?” Dean asked.

Sam’s eyes widened. 

“It’s Fallon,” Cas breathed a sigh of relief. She had finally returned their call. Maybe they would finally get the answers they needed.

“Fallon?” Sam pressed the phone to his ear and spoke. He listened for a moment and his eyebrows furrowed. “Bear. Hey. No, I remember,” Dean quirked an eyebrow and motioned toward him. Sam nodded. “H-Hold on, Bear, give me a second,” He pulled the phone from his ear and put it on speaker. He set it down on the table and both Dean and Cas leaned toward him. “Okay, go ahead. I put you on speaker.” 

“Hey Bear,” Dean greeted. Cas’ heart beat quickened in pace. Why did Bear have Fallon’s phone?

‘Hey guys,’ He sounded out of breath. Panicked. The three exchanged glances. ‘Ever since that shit happened at OIT, things have been weird.’

“Like, for you?” Sam asked. “It’s probably hard for you to adjust after-“

‘Not for me. Fallon.’

“Seems to me that weird is just in her personality.” Dean shrugged. Cas rolled his eyes.

‘No, this is a different weird. Fallon’s usually a little out there. And, honestly, after what she’s been through, I can’t say I blame her,’ Cas tilted his head at that. ‘But in the last two weeks alone I don’t think she’s slept for more than ten hours. She’s putting me on jobs she usually does herself. She isn’t even trying to be tolerable anymore. And now this...’ He sighed.

“What do you mean ‘this’?” Cas leaned further forward. 

The phone was quiet for another moment. It felt like a lifetime. “Bear?” Sam’s voice hitched at the end. Dean shifted in his chair.

‘You near a computer?’ Bear finally asked. 

“Yeah, I’ve got mine,” Dean clicked a few times then poised his fingers over the keys. “What am I looking up?”

‘Just type in “Highway 140 West News.”’ Bear said. ‘It’ll pop up.’

“What will pop up?” Cas asked. 

“Shit,” Dean muttered at his laptop. The chair Cas had been sitting on practically flew from behind him as he stood from his place. Both him and Sam hunched over beside Dean and stared at the webpage he had pulled up. It was a news article. The picture at the top showed a maroon-colored vehicle lying face down in a ditch. It had a white stripe across the middle.

“Video,” Sam pointed at the screen with a worried glance. Dean clicked on it. It was a news caster.

‘-and local authorities say that the accident took sometime near midnight on Saturday night,’ The woman stood on the highway, a few police cars parked behind her. ‘There are a lot of unknowns about this accident but one thing is unmistakable- the red 1970 Chevrolet Chevelle is one of great fame in the Lakeview community.’

“Oh, my god,” Sam muttered. 

“That thing must have rolled twenty times.” Dean gestured toward the video, which currently featured a view of the car from the road. The vehicle was almost five hundred feet from the highway shoulder. “Don’t tell me she-“

‘No,’ Bear interrupted him. ‘Someone's looking out, because she’s still alive.’

Sam and Dean breathed a sigh. Cas released his death grip on the table top. The wood had indents from where his fingers had pressed. 

“How bad is she?” Sam asked.

‘Actually, I don’t know how she managed it, but she’s fine,’ Bear chuckled. ‘It was apparently quite the sight, watching her try and crawl out from under the paramedic’s nose.’

“How is that even possible?”

‘Don’t know. But that’s not why I’m calling.’ 

Sam furrowed his brows. “Then why are you-“

‘I don’t care how fucked up Fallon is, she doesn’t crash. Ever. I’ve seen that woman drift the back half of her car over the edge of a cliff and not even bat an eye. The cops told me that they think she fell asleep at the wheel but I don’t think they’re right.’

“You think something happened,” Sam confirmed.

‘Or someone,’ Bear sighed. ‘Look, I don’t know. She’s just been so off her rocker lately I can’t help but think something bigger’s going on here. Maybe something happened at the OIT that’s got her all sorts of crazy. And I know y’all just got done saving my life, but I’m asking you as a personal favor. Come back and fix her.’

“It’s gonna take us a few days to get there,” Dean glanced up at Sam, who nodded. Cas swallowed. “But we’ll be there.”

‘She’s at Providence Medical Center in Medford right now. Intensive care. I was gonna head over and see her but if this shop doesn’t keep running heads are gonna roll.’ 

“We got her, Bear. We’ll get this figured out,” Sam said. “We’ll see you soon.”

‘Before you go. This conversation never happened, you got that?’ Bear was stern. ‘She’d kill me if she knew I called you guys. If there’s one thing Fallon doesn’t do, it’s ask for help.’

Dean’s face lit up in triumph. It screamed: I told you so! “Alright. We’ll keep it quiet.”

‘Thanks,’ He breathed in relief. ‘Good luck.’ 

Sam ended the call.

“Well, better get going,” Dean slapped his legs and rose from his chair. “That twenty hour trip ain’t gonna drive itself.” 

“This isn’t gonna be pretty,” Sam made for his bedroom. “Better prepare for the worst.”

Cas was already halfway to the garage. 


	12. Castiel

When they arrived in Medford, it was raining.

Not just a light sprinkle that cascaded over the area. No. It was a heavy flow, pounding onto the roof of the Impala as they pulled into the hospital parking lot. Thunder rolled through the thick bellows of dark clouds and lighting split in between. The hospital building stood tall in the shadows, like the evil villain’s lair in a black-and-white horror film. The eerie feel only quickened his heart beat. 

It took Sam ten minutes and twenty-three seconds to find a parking spot. The vehicle settled in between a periwinkle sports car and a deep cherry van. The only sound that was heard was the raindrops slapping against the metal around them. A burst of thunder filled the sky. 

“Alright, so what’s the plan?” Sam finally asked.

“We go in there, grab Fallon, and get the hell out of there,” Dean clapped his hands. “Keep it simple. No screwing around.”

“Dean, she’s not just gonna leave with us,” Sam sighed. “She wouldn’t go with us last time. What makes you think she will this time around?”

“Uh, because she just rolled her car into a ditch? You heard the guy, she was born on the road. Clearly something’s up.”

“We know something’s up,” Sam shook his head. “We’ve known for weeks and we didn’t do a thing about it.”

“Because she didn’t want help, Sammy. We can’t blame ourselves for a stubborn ass woman who doesn’t want to be saved.”

“Yeah, well now we’ve got a stubborn ass woman who’s in the hospital,” Sam pushed open the door and climbed out into the storm. Dean and Cas followed close behind.

Cas’ trenchcoat began to soak through the moment they left the vehicle. His hair stuck to his face. His pants dripped from the seams. Even his socks had collected water. Cas wished for the hundredth time that day that he could still use his wings. 

Cas crinkled his nose as they entered the waiting area of the hospital. It smelled of decaying flesh and vomit. He attempted to wipe the bottom of his shoes against the rug at the door. His feet squeaked against the faux tile that lined the floor. The red-haired woman behind the front counter smiled as they approached. “Welcome to Providence Hospital. How can I help you?”

“We are looking for Fallon Fawkes,” Cas spoke, beads of water sliding from his hair down his lips as he spoke. He licked the moisture away with the tip of his tongue. “She was admitted on Saturday night.”

“Yes, I remember her,” She raised her eyebrow and exchanged a glance with another nurse. The woman scoffed. “Hard to forget a show like that in the waiting area.”

“Is she that bad?” Sam made a face.

“Oh no, not because she was injured. She was just, uh-“ The woman pondered for a moment before she finished her sentence. “-very passionate about leaving.”

“Where is she?” Cas asked. Why did humans insist on talking so much?

“She’s in the recovery center. Room 1354,” She pointed behind her at the double doors. “Take the elevator on the left to the thirteenth floor. It should be in the hall to the right.”

“Thank you.” Sam patted the counter with his hand.

“Good luck,” She snorted as they started for the doors.

The atmosphere on the thirteenth floor was anything but positive. Most of the rooms were shut, but Cas could still hear the pained groans as if he were standing beside them. They passed by an open door where a woman lay without a blanket. Her right leg was missing. She watched them walk past with a bloodshot stare. Cas averted his eyes. 

“1354 is down here,” Dean made a sharp turn down the corridor to their right. But Cas didn’t need the room plaques to know where Fallon was. He could already hear her.

“It’s not like I’m shitting on the floor and chasing my tail. I got two arms, two legs, and a heartbeat. They’re working just like new,” There was a light croak in her voice. Her throat had been bruised. 

“I’m sorry, Ms. Fawkes, but we can’t let you leave right now,” A man spoke. The doctor. “You have a fairly serious concussion and a bruised tailbone. We are required to keep you here for observation-“

“I’ve been here two days, I think that’s plenty of time for you to poke and prod at me like some kind of lab rat,” They closed in on the room on the right side of the hallway.

The doctor sighed. “Ms. Fawkes, that’s not why-“

Conversation ceased the moment they walked through the door. Cas watched a million emotions cross over Fallon’s freckles before she spoke. “Oh, you gotta be fucking kidding me.”

“Hey Fallon,” Sam offered a timid wave. 

“Who the hell let these clowns up here? Isn’t this a restricted area?”

“I’ll come back in a little while to check on you,” He offered them a curt nod. “Gentlemen.”

“Hey, wait, come back. Don’t you have some tests to run on me in some other room?” She yelled out to him. He all but ran from the room. “God damn it.”

Fallon looked, for lack of a better term, awful. The dark circles underneath her eyes had nearly tripled in depth and darkness. Every square inch of skin that was visible was a sickly black and blue color, including a few patches of her neck. A large white bandage covered the top right part of her forehead and into her blonde hair. Her nose was wrapped in white tape. There was a cast on the middle finger of her right hand, another around her left ankle. The only thing that had not changed about her was the messy knot of light hair that sat atop her head and the blood splattered bandana around her right wrist. She tried to turn her body away from them but couldn’t twist her torso. 

“Look, Fallon-“ Dean began.

“Not interested,” She turned her head toward the window. The blinds were open. The rain pounded against the glass. Her hard eyes followed each drop. 

“We’re just glad you’re okay,” Sam sighed. 

“Who cares about me when my girl’s probably out there getting hauled off god knows where?” A deep frown set into her face. She sniffed and hissed. Her head suddenly turned to stare at them. It was very subtle, but Cas could detect a light mist in her gaze. “It’s bad, isn’t it?” 

Dean shrugged. “I mean, it’s not terrible-“

“You can bullshit my friends and I’ll bullshit yours. But let’s not bullshit each other.” 

He sighed. “There's a good chance the frame is bent, and from what I could tell, the roof caved in.” 

It was like she had been stabbed in her back. Her eyes squinted shut and she let out a strangled sigh. “Why didn’t I take the truck,” She whimpered. Her head fell deeper into the cheap pillow and her pained gaze held the ceiling. 

Cas said the first thing that came to his mind. “Dean will retrieve your vehicle,” It came out in a short burst, the multi-word sentence nearly sounding as if it were one. Dean’s gaze turned to a glare as it fell on him. Cas swallowed. “It couldn’t have been taken far. It will be easy to find.”

“Why don’t you get it you son of a-“ Dean let his mouth run amuck once again. Cas all but burned through his soul with his stare. Dean sighed. “Nothing I’d rather do,” He muttered under his breath with a forced smile. 

She nodded at no one in particular. “Yeah, yeah she’s probably close by,” She spoke more to convince herself than anyone else. “In that impound lot outside of Klamath.”

“Only another hour and a half out. Not like I just drove 12 hours to get here,” Dean muttered. Sam elbowed him in the arm. “What?” 

“We’ll be right back,” He gave a timid laugh to Fallon and nodded sharply toward the door. His older brother muttered a few choice words under his breath as he made his way into the hall. Cas followed behind.

“Don’t hurry back,” Fallon coughed the last word as they turned the corner.

“I’m not about to go on a wild goose chase for her rusting pile of junk.” Dean’s whisper might as well have been a yell. “I just drove half the day to get here and now I have to go comb through every junk lot along the southern border of Oregon?”

“That vehicle clearly means more to Fallon than most material things in her life,” Cas matched his volume. “She may be more willing to talk to us if we speak her language.”

“Speak her language? She’s not speaking pig Latin here.”

“You cannot actually be this obtuse,” Cas hissed. 

“He’s right, Dean,” Sam said. Dean threw up his arms. “She might be more open to talk if she knows her car isn’t being used as scrap. I mean, c’mon, wouldn’t you feel the same way about ‘Baby’?.”

Dean growled and rake his fingers through his tousled brown hair. “Fine. I’ll go. But if she doesn’t lay out this deal like a Chevy’s buffet I’m tying her to Baby’s roof and taking the Polar Express to Lebanon.”

“I’ll stay back and help Cas talk to Fallon,” Sam scratched his head. “I think this one’s a two person battle. At least.”

“Fine,” Dean crossed his arms. “Just means more quality time with Baby,” Dean pivoted on his heel and clomped toward the elevator. 

“Leaving us with the most impossible case yet.” Sam sighed. “Getting through to Fallon.”

Cas tried his best to swallow the lump in his throat. It only partially helped. He turned his head back toward the hospital room and took a breath. Her heart monitor rang deafly in his ears. He closed his eyes and counted. 108 beats per minute. Slightly above the average resting rate for adults.

“Cas?” Sam’s voice cut through his thoughts. “You good?”

“I don’t know how to approach this,” Cas spoke honestly. He had to tilt his chin upward to look at Sam. The brother pursed his lips.

“Yeah, me neither,” He huffed. “Guess that means we just wing it.”

Cas was a strategic force. A strong, well thought out plan of action was how he had always conducted matters. Either it was God’s plan, or it was a direct order of his superior. Acting on impulse was saved only for the most drastic, time-sensitive situations. The Winchester’s constantly, as Dean put it, ‘shooting from the hip.’ After over a decade on Earth, he still struggled with it. Immensely. 

His shoes felt like lead as he made his way back into the room, with Sam close on his heels. Fallon was fiddling with the intravenous needle in the crook of her left elbow. Her head snapped up at the slight squeak of their shoes.

“Back so soon?” She asked, returning to her task. The heart monitor sped up a bit. 123 beats per minute. 

“You should not remove that.” Cas stated. Her stare was ice.

“Wow, Dr. Accountant, that’s some great advice there. You runnin’ a class later today? Mind if I drop in?” She snorted. “Nurse that stuck me wasn’t a nurse at all. Some student. Jabbed me three times before she settled on this shit job,” The area around the catheter was darker than the bruises that covered her arm. A cluster of dried blood covered the underside of the clear tape over the puncture. “Been irritating me for a while now.”

“The catheter is not fully inserted into your vein,” Cas concluded, almost to himself. Her perplexed gaze reminded him of how the Winchester’s looked at him during his time in the psychiatric facility. “And the nurse used an incorrect size for your arm. It is too large.”

“Well, one of these fools needs to get in here and fix me up,” She began to pull on the capsule. Her face twisted. “Maybe someone that isn’t in training.”

He moved almost on impulse, sliding onto the small metal stool that sat on the left side of her bed. His fingers gently grazed her forearm to examine the area. The heart monitor spiked to 150. “There is no need. I can fix it.”

“Oh no, I don’t think so, angel-boy,” she twisted in his grasp. His fingers gripped a bit tighter. “I don’t need you to-“

“I am just going to fix the catheter.” He spoke firmly. Her arm ceased movement and her mouth clamped shut. “For once, please, accept help from someone when you need it.”

The air in the room could be cut with the dull edge of a practice blade. Sam cleared his throat from somewhere behind him. He didn’t need to heart monitor to know her heart was beating wildly in her chest. He waited for her wrath. Some sort of temper-tantrum that Cas knew she was more than likely capable of. Her and Dean were too much alike. But instead, she simply nodded. 

He shifted through the small cabinet at her bedside and retrieved a magenta colored catheter and a grey tourniquet from the drawer. Fallon watched with wide set eyes. He cinched the drip cord with the clamp from the side of the bag and removed the tape from her arm. His fingers pressed firmly below the point of entrance. “The catheter the nurse used is a 14 gauge. It is typically only used for patients with large veins or for insertion into the jugular,” He gently pulled on the red tube and the catheter slid free. She let out a small grunt. 

“You saying I got small veins?” 

“I’m saying the nurse ‘screwed up.’” 

Her lip pulled at the edge. He slid the tourniquet onto her arm and tightened it along her bicep. “Glad someone see’s it my way.”

A small bubble had formed around the incision area, the hole seeping small amounts of blood around the deep crimson bruise. The vein had most definitely burst. His eyes swept over the length of her arm to find a more suitable place for the needle. He ran his fingertips over her forearm until he located one on the inside of her elbow. He pressed down and used his other hand to rip the plastic packaging of the new catheter open with his teeth. “Are you prepared?”

173 beats per minute. Her head turned toward the window as she pushed her arm further into his grasp and farther from her body. “Just get it over with.” 

Fallon was afraid of needles. He couldn’t help but smirk at the irony of it all. He aligned the needle above the vein and broke through her skin. She hissed above him through her teeth. When he felt the needle puncture the vein he retracted it a few centimeters and pushed the catheter through. He pulled the needle out completely and placed it on top of the cabinet before securing the catheter to her skin with a new piece of tape. “The worst is over,” He informed her, releasing the tourniquet from her arm and sliding it free. She peeked over her shoulder with one eye as he twisted the IV tubing onto the end of the catheter hub. He made sure to make a few loops with the tubing to ensure less pull on the contraption. 

“Cas, where did you learn how to do that?” Sam asked. He had almost forgotten Sam was standing behind him. 

“I have observed humanity for a long time, Sam,” He said simply, placing another strip of tape onto the tubing. He released the clamp on the IV drip and adjusted the roller clamp to accommodate the smaller catheter. The max flow rate for an 18 gauge was around 60 milliliters per minute, so he fixed it to be around 55. She had plenty of fluid already. “I cannot put into words the amount of times I have watched humans administer inter-vascular treatments to various patients. Not to mention the few that I have had done to myself.”

The heart monitor had slowed it’s shrill beeping. It was making a slow and steady fall to 130. Fallon shifted in her bed and flexed her left arm. After a quick examination of the IV she nodded. “Don’t hurt as bad as the last one.”

“You’re welcome,” Cas dropped the needle into the sharps container on the table behind him. She snorted. “Now, we need your help.”

“Oh, great. Here we go again.”

“Fallon, listen, please. I know this is a lot,” Sam crouched beside Cas and rested his elbow near the end of the bed. “I think it would be best if you just came with us to Kansas. Just until we figure all of this out. It isn’t safe for you to be alone right now.”

“It was just a car accident, Fabio. Happens to folks all the time,” She rolled her eyes. “No need to make it somethin’ bigger than it is.”

“Because you fell asleep at the wheel,” Cas tilted his head. “Correct?”

Her eyes darted to the left then back again. She swallowed before answering. “Haven’t slept well lately.” She was lying. 

“Fallon, the newscaster said that the driver’s side had completely caved in on itself.” Sam shook his head. “They were surprised you were even alive.”

“So?” 

“So, something or someone protected you during the accident," Cas said. “And we have reason to believe that the chances of you losing control of your vehicle are extremely slim.”

“’Reason to believe…’” She repeated to herself. Another moment passed before her neck rolled behind her shoulders. She smirked. “Grizz called y’all, didn’t he.”

“He didn’t know what else to do,” Sam sighed. “He’s been worried sick about you, Fallon.”

“Boy’s gotta learn to stay out of my business,” She groaned. “I’m fine. Just a lil’ rough patch.”

“This is not just a ‘rough patch,’” Cas’ voice stooped another octave. Firmer. “You are being contacted by some celestial force that is reaching out for aid. A failsafe has been enacted. Something is happening. And we cannot do anything about it until you quit being so difficult and help us.”

He could feel Sam stare at him. Fallon choked out a laugh. “Oh, really? I’m being difficult? How about y’all quit following me up and down the southern state line like a couple of Guns N Roses groupies?”

“We are trying to do a job. One that you turned your back on to become a mechanic.”

He had gone too far. Her freckles twitched. He could almost see flames dancing in her eyes. “I don’t need this shit,” She scooted as far as she could to the other side of the bed. “Get the fuck out of here.”

“Fallon-“ Sam began.

“Get gone before I get security, you pricks,” She growled. Her thumb jammed down repeatedly onto the call button for a nurse. 

“Alright, we’re going,” Sam stood and pulled Cas’ sleeve. “C’mon, Cas, let’s go.”

Cas continued to share a heated glare with Fallon before rising to his feet. He watched her as he walked, finally turning his head once they had reached the doorway. Her could still hear the scream of her heart monitor halfway down the hall.

~~

The waiting area of the recovery center was slightly better smelling than the bottom floor. Most of the chairs were empty, save for an older gentleman who glanced over the sports section of the local newspaper. The front page featured a local athlete who had just been selected for the professional football league. The man thumbed through the pages and periodically peered over his shoulder toward the main hallway. His foot tapped against the floor in an uneven rhythm.

“Well, Dean found the car,” Sam finished writing a text to his brother and set his phone down in his lap. “It was in a tow yard in Klamath. Apparently, the owner owes Fallon for driving out and fixing his son’s flat tire so he waved the fee. Even offered his son to tow it back to Lakeview for us.”

“This trip was a waste of time,” Cas muttered to no one. He leaned forward in his chair and hung his head between his shoulders.

“Hey, we tried our best,” Sam patted his shoulder. He leaned back and sighed. “Maybe Dean can talk to her and-“

“And what? Fallon is not the type to fall for Dean’s ‘womanizing charm.’” 

“Yeah, I know,” Sam murmured. “Let’s just wait for Dean to get back and we can head home. We’ll figure something out. We always do.”

Cas’ gaze roamed around the waiting area for a moment before falling to the front desk. He sat up suddenly, reaching into the inner pocket of his trench coat. Did he still have it? He did. He rose to his feet and nodded toward the doors. “I will be right back.” 

“Where are you going?” Sam asked. The man peered over the top of the newspaper toward the noise. 

“A walk,” Cas offered no other explanation. The woman behind the visitor's front desk nodded as he passed by. He pushed through the doors and strode further into the hospital wing.

The front counter in the waiting area was mainly used for visitor check-in. The nurse that operated the desk was not informed of patient status or medical needs. She was there as a friendly face and to keep track of names. But if you continued down the main hall and took to the left, there was a secondary desk that was run by another nurse. And if his hunch was correct, the file cabinets held the medical files for each patient housed on floor thirteen. Including Fallon’s.

This nurse was not as friendly as the one behind the front counter. She offered a nod but nothing more. “Visitor check-in is in the waiting area,” She shuffled a few papers on the desk top. Her white blonde hair was pulled back into a tight bun. It looked uncomfortable. “I run the medical side of things.”

“Actually, that’s why I’m here,” He pulled his FBI badge from his pocket and briefly displayed it. Just as he had learned from the Winchester’s. The nurse immediately straightened in her chair. “Agent Timberlake. I wanted to ask you about one of your patients.”

“Timberlake? Like, Justin Timberlake?” The nurse scoffed. “Any relation?”

“Distant relative,” He cleared his throat. “Very distant.”

“I see,” She smirked. “So, which one of my patients plotted to murder the president?”

“It’s not like that,” Cas leaned against the counter. “I need to see the medical file for Fallon Fawkes.”

“Fallon Fawkes. The girl that drove her Cavalier off Highway 140?” She rose from her chair and turned to face one of the industrial sized file cabinets against the wall. “Why’s the FBI looking into a one-person car accident?”

“Actually, it was a Chevelle,” The nurse glanced over her shoulder and shrugged. “And we believe the incident could be connected to something a bit larger than a simple car accident.”

“I’m telling you, that girl is lucky to be breathing,” She shook her head, pulling a rather large file from the cabinet and shutting the door. She handed it to him with both hands. “From what I heard, it should’ve been fatal.”

“What type of injuries did she sustain?” He opened the file to the first page and glanced at the contents. 

“From the accident? Bruising over her entire body. A fairly serious concussion. A broken left ankle and middle finger. The rest must have been from another time.”

“The rest?” Cas flipped the page. It was a medical record from a children’s hospital in 1995. 

“Yeah, she had a bunch of stitches that tore on her gut. We had to re-stitch them. Doctor Murphy said if he didn’t know better he’d call them claw marks.” He looked up at her. “He had to re-set her nose and shoulder, too. Said from the looks of it they’d both been dislocated for weeks.” 

Memories from weeks prior at the OIT ruins flashed through his head. The werewolf-witch had done more than Fallon had let show. How did he let that slip past him? “Interesting,” He murmured, picking the file up off the counter. “Do you mind if I borrow this?” 

“If it’s for the greater good, sure,” She nodded. “We already made a copy for our records. Most of it’s from before 2010, anyways. Not all that relevant.” 

“Thank you,” Cas smiled and held up the file. “Your help is appreciated.” 

“Anything for a servant of our well-respected and competent federal government,” She mock-saluted and sat back down. Her voice was layered with sarcasm. “Send our fearless commanding officer my warmest regards.” 

He continued to thumb through the pages as he walked away. The nurse had been right: most of the records from her file were from many years prior. He had retrieved the file hoping it would shed some light on who Fallon was. But all it did was raise more questions. He blindly sat in one of the chairs against the wall further down the hallway. Most of the pages were from various Children’s Hospitals throughout the state of Oregon. Ten of them, to be precise. The records mentioned a then six-year-old Fallon who was suffering from pneumonia at the time. They discussed her current condition and what symptoms she possessed. From the way each doctor spoke of her, she had been in a nearly fatal position. But there was one word that stood out in each account.

“Leukemia,” Cas muttered. Fallon has leukemia. 

“Excuse me, sir?” He looked up at a petite woman with black hair and timid eyes. Even as he sat she only stood two heads taller than him. The badge pinned to her uniform read ‘Nursing Student.’ “Are you here for a Fallon Fawkes?” 

He shut the file and cleared his throat. “Yes. Yes, I am.”

“She sent me to find an 'idiot wrapped in a trenchcoat,” Her fingers fidgeted against the sleeve of her scrubs. “I’m assuming she was referring to your attire.”

“Is she alright?” 

“Yes, she's... fine,” The nurse appeared confused. “She just said to tell you that she changed her mind.” 

It took every ounce of strength he had not to sprint to her hospital room.


	13. Castiel

The hospital did not release Fallon for two more days.

For two days they sat in the thirteenth floor waiting room. For two days Cas watched patients come and go, each case different from the last. For two days Cas listened to Dean gripe about having to wait when Cas could just ‘heal her with angel mo-jo and get them on their merry way.’ 

“We have already pushed her enough, Dean,” Cas said each time with an eye roll. “Attempting to heal her would only jeopardize this entire operation.”

“Who cares if she gets pissed off? She’ll thank us later. Guaranteed.”

“Dude, she doesn’t wanna be healed,” Sam sighed over the top of a ‘National Enquirer’ magazine he found on coffee table. “We got this far. Don’t screw this up.”

“Just saying we could be halfway to Kansas right about now,” He crossed his arms and sank into the seat. “And we might as well be sitting on boulders. How does a hospital this nice have chairs this shitty?”

“Maybe if you’d suck it up and let us get a motel room-“ Sam raised his brows.

“Hey, we already dropped however much on gas to get here. And in case you didn’t notice, we’re a little tight on funds right now.” 

For two days, he listened to the Winchester’s snores as the evenings wore on. He watched the woman at the front desk rotate positions with a man in magenta colored scrubs. He listened to a few nurses complain about the difficult patient in room 1354. He looked away when families left the waiting room in tears. For two days, he did this. And for two days he held that file of records underneath his trench coat.

He did not know the exact reason why he was keeping it hidden from the brothers. It wasn’t crucial information. It wasn’t something that would absolutely destroy Fallon’s character and, in turn, her life. In fact, strictly from a business standpoint, it could make her more cooperative. Knowing a portion of her history could deflate her ego and make her more, well, human. It would give them the upper hand. He knew Dean would be more than happy to take a peak at the contents of that faded yellow file folder. And after the way she treated him these past few weeks, maybe he should. 

But he didn’t.

Instead, he waited until both boys were fast asleep. The nighttime nurse at the front counter had plugged his headphones in and was giggling at something on his phone. The waiting room was completely empty besides them. He waited until he was sure. Then, he pulled out the folder.

Each account was the same. The doctor would confirm she had stage three leukemia, and then focus on her sudden development of pneumonia. Each one described a worse condition. The last one, written by a doctor at Randall Children’s Hospital, described her progression of pneumonia as ‘life threatening, nearly fatal.’ That was in late January of 1995. The document following it, however, was dated nearly two years following. A simple vaccination record as requested by Lakeview Elementary School for all students. Doctor Wright of Lakeview Hospital even describes her as a ‘strong and physically capable eight-year-old girl.’ Cas flipped through page after page, searching for any other mentions of leukemia. Even her life-threatening case of pneumonia. Nothing. Nothing but healthy and happy documentations of regular check-ups, save for a few regarding a cough or a simple fever. But nothing more. 

Dean stirred awake before he could make it any farther. He buried the file back under the crook of his arm. It stayed there for the remainder of the time.

Then, on Thursday afternoon, she was discharged. 

On the ride to Lakeview, Fallon was clearly having trouble sitting still. Every few minutes she would adjust herself in the backseat: shift the position of her legs, change the position of her crutches between them, settle her elbow into the crook of the window, bite her thumbnail. Cas watched from beside her with a raised brow. The sound of the leather seat grinding against the material of her blue jeans was like the clicking of a blue pen right at his ear drum. After twenty minutes she let out a sigh.

“You okay back there, Fallon?” Sam asked from the passenger seat. 

“Just not used to sitting bitch,” She muttered.

“Ah, don’t worry, you’ll warm up to it real quick,” Dean hummed. “Baby is our ride of choice. And brothers get front bench. ”

“My girl could smoke this hunk of metal in a rainstorm,” Fallon glared out the rear view window. 

Dean barked out a laugh. “Don’t think she’s gonna be doing much for a while. I saw her at that junk yard. She’s looking real sad.” 

“Just needs some TLC and she’ll be back on the strip where she belongs,” Fallon sat up tall. “The 67 Impala series wasn’t built for speed. Shit, bet you don’t even hit 500 horsepower on a good day.”

“Might not, but her brakes sure work good,” Dean pressed down onto the brake pedal and the car lurched forward, Fallon’s forehead making direct contact with the headrest of the front seat. It took Cas much effort to avoid falling victim to a similar fate.

“Watch it, asshole,” She yelled, her palm instinctually covering the bandage on her head. “Still rocking a concussion over here.” 

“Maybe if you’d pull your thick head out from down under, you’d let the surgeon general over here make it all better.” 

“Quit it, both of you,” Sam sighed. “You’re both way too similar. You even talk alike.”

“Do not,” They both spoke in unison. They exchanged a glare through the rear view mirror. “Can it,” Again, at the same time. Their backs both hit their respective seats as they groaned. “Whatever,” They muttered out of their windows. Cas smirked to himself.

Cas hardly knew they were in Lakeview until Dean mentioned it. It was simply a stretch of highway with a few businesses scattered along the side. Hardly a soul was outside. They drove past a building with piles of scrap vehicles lined up in a sea of weeds. There was a man in the gravel driveway speaking to an older gentleman in his truck. 

Recognition crossed the man's features at first sight of the Impala. His entire face lit up. He slapped the door of the truck a few times before and waved as the older gentleman reversed onto the main road. Dean pulled in as the driveway opened up and settled into park. The three of them climbed out while Fallon readied her crutches outside of her door. Dean offered a hand but she waved it off. How shocking. She hobbled over behind them and the man sighed.

“Jesus, you look terrible,” He swung his towel over his shoulder. The man must be Bear.

“Could say the same about you,” She nodded. “Ever heard of a comb?” He smiled.

“Can’t say I have,” He motioned toward her cast. “You actually let them wrap you up like that?”

“Didn’t have much of a choice. Said they’d shoot me up with that anas-whatever if I didn’t work with them.”

Bear chuckled. “You’re such a pain in the ass.” 

She shrugged over the tops of her crutches. After a moment of silence Sam cleared his throat. “I can pull your truck around. If you want.” 

She motioned toward the garage doors. “Keys should be on the truck's bench seat, if Grizz knows what he’s doing.”

“Where you left them,” He confirmed. Sam nodded and headed toward the building. Then she glanced back at Cas and Dean and nodded toward his car. “Give us a sec.”

Dean offered a small parting wave to Bear. He returned it with a smile. 

The Impala was too far away for Dean to hear anything that they were saying. Years of abuse to his ears had obviously taken its toll. He leaned his stomach into the passenger side door and fiddled on his phone, giggling as he watched some video of a super model on the screen. But Cas was leaned against the driver’s door, arms crossed and attentive. He couldn’t ignore their conversation even if he wanted to. Their words rang clear as day.

“So, you been making some prank calls from my phone again?” Fallon began.

Bear sighed. “Falcon, you shut me out. I ran out of options.”

“Here’s a good one: could’ve just not used my phone to call them. Easy.”

“I thought this was some back lash from the OIT. I didn’t know who else to call.”

Fallon was quiet for a moment.

“Is that what this is?” Bear motioned toward her current state. “Did Stevie do something to you while you were down there?”

“I dunno, Grizz,” Fallon sighed. “I honestly don’t know what the hell this is.”

They stepped aside and let Sam pull the truck down the driveway and toward the main road. Cas had to strain his neck over the roof of the truck to keep his eye on them. 

“But you’re gonna go find out,” Bear nodded at the truck. “Aren’t you?”

Fallon paused before nodding. “Yeah, I think so.” 

Bear stared at her for a while. He rolled his bottom lip between his teeth and nodded at the ground. When he looked back up his eyes were glazed over. He sniffed. “Where you going?”

“Somewhere in Kansas. Don’t know specifics.”

“How long?”

Fallon took a breath. “A while.”

His fingers began to idly trace along the edges of one of his tattoos. It was a bird. A Peregrine Falcon, to be exact. Particularly rare in the United States and known for its incredible survival skills and hunting abilities. Even more fascinating, the female Peregrine was typically more powerful than the male. The bird spread its wings across the inside of his left wrist and down his forearm. But while most peregrine falcons possessed a near charcoal set of eyes, this one had bright brown ones that teetered on almost hazel. Cas studied the pattern then looked back to Bear. 

“What about the shop?” Bear asked. Cas knew he did not care about the shop. “Who’s gonna run this dump if the only Fawkes in town is gone?”

Fallon moved, shifting her weight onto her right leg and reaching into her pocket. A pair of keys glistened in her palm. She tossed them toward Bear and they landed in his hand. “Last I checked there’s still one around here.”

Bear stared at the keys. His lips moved but no words were spoken. “Fal, I can’t-“

“Don’t tell me I wasted nine god damn years training you for no reason.” 

He laughed. His voice broke. “I got big shoes to fill.”

“Just don’t go and burn the place down,” She kicked the gravel with her good foot. “Or else I’ll come back here and rip your head off.”

He blinked rapidly for a moment. Then he strode forward and wrapped his arms around her. Her entire body seized up like she had just seen a supernatural entity, just as she had during their embrace at OIT. She hesitated before letting a crutch rest on her side and bringing her right arm to pat his back. His nose was buried in her hair and he closed his eyes. “I’m gonna miss you.” 

They pulled apart and she patted his chest. “I’ll see you soon,” She gave the auto shop one last glance before saluting him in an almost mock-fashion. Then she turned her back on all of it.

She didn’t hear him. Cas knew she didn’t. But as she hobbled toward the side of her truck, Bear murmured three words that she would never hear him say. 

“I love you.” 

~~

Fallon directed them through the center of town toward her home. Continue down main road then turn right onto Center Street. A few more blocks then a left onto South I Street. It should be the fifth house on the left.

“Oh, Lordy-“ she gaped at the driveway. A trailer was parked in the gravel, housing a less than impressive pile of rubble that was once her greatest treasure. The Impala had not ceased moving when she pushed open the door and threw her crutches onto the grass. Her boot caught the curb as she jumped out, nearly falling face first into her front yard.

“Fallon, be careful-“ Sam tried to warn her.

She could not be bothered with the crutches. She made a clumsy hop through the grass and all but collapsed onto the trailer's edge. 

“I'm so sorry, Pa,” Her voice was barely audible as she ran her good hand over the bent metal.

Cas actually felt a pang in his heart. Sam picked the crutches off of the ground and made his way toward her. 

“I can’t even tell you how many times Dean’s had to put the Impala back together again,” Sam handed her the the crutches. She took them and sighed. “We got hit by a semi once and it looked something like this. I don’t know how he did it, but Dean managed to get it up and running again.”

“Damn, I almost forgot about that,” Dean muttered. “Feels like twenty years ago.”

“Yeah, well, an Impala’s got less under the hood,” She sighed. She tucked the crutches under her arms. “Throttle body alone’s gonna take me two months to rebuild at least.”

“Hey, Baby’s got plenty under the hood.” 

“Like a custom-built exhaust pipeline and a four-barrel carburetor with a Edelbrock intake manifold?” Fallon raised a brow.

Dean scratched his head. “Uh, she’s mostly stock.”

“There’s a garage at the bunker,” Sam offered. “We can tow it there if you want.”

“Well, no shit I’m towing her there. She ain’t staying here in the driveway like a last place derby car,” She hit Sam with the backside of her hand and started up the walkway. “I swear, all y’all Kansas boys gonna be the death of me…”

Her home smelled like the inside of a museum. Every piece of furniture appeared as though it had been purchased in the late 1970’s, from the couches to the white lace curtains draping over the smudged windows. He studied the wood entertainment center that housed a simple TV and a large glass cabinet to the left of it. The panels were a bit too thin on the sides and the wood lacked the same gloss finish that most factory pieces possessed. It had been made by hand. He ran his fingers over the worn end table beside the small set of stairs. The lamp shade atop the small lamp was a dark tan color. He blew at a few tuffs of fuzz that were stuck to the edge. A large cloud of dust expanded directly into his eyes and face. He coughed and waved the plow of dirt away. It turns out the lamp shade was white.

“This won’t take long. I don’t got much,” She shuffled through the small walkway behind the other end of the couch, leading to a small crook. There was a tall display containing various ceramic figurines on the shelves. “You boys like country music?”

“As long as it isn’t those Florida Georgia freaks,” Dean muttered.

“Good thing those inbreds don’t press shit on vinyl,” She threw an open suitcase onto the living room floor and followed behind it. “’Cause that’s all I buy.” She pulled open the glass cabinet door on the entertainment center and revealed shelves and shelves of vinyl records surrounding an old style turn table. 

“These are all yours?” Sam kneeled in front of the cabinet, Dean leaning over his back. 

“Most of ‘em,” She muttered. Her eyes slid to the floor. “They all go in that pack. And be gentle with ‘em. Some of those Elvis prints are worth more than this house.”

Sam slid the record player from the cabinet and carried it out the door. Dean finished loading up the remaining records and followed behind. 

That left Cas standing alone in her living room. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his trench coat and shuffled slowly toward the kitchen. He passed the ceramic display on the way. Antique figurine collections did not seem to fit Fallon’s personality. Even more surprising was the theme of the entire case. Angels.

“You gonna move?” Fallon had emerged from her bedroom with a crutch under one arm and a duffle bag in the other. Her tote of clothes was smaller than the suitcase for her records. 

Cas shuffled out of the walkway and let Fallon pass. She dropped the bag onto the carpet and crutched back into her bedroom.

“These statues,” Cas returned to the case and studied a few of the figurines. One near the back of the middle shelf was poised mid-flight, a scroll extended in his hand. His long, blonde hair flowed behind him like a majestic mane. Gabriel. “most of them are angels.”

“Don’t get too excited. Wasn’t my idea to put that there,” She re-emerged from the bedroom with her second crutch and a wrinkled baseball cap. She pulled the accordion door closed and shooed him away. “Never moved it after Gamma left.”

“Your grandmother,” Cas confirmed. 

“Your typical ‘Jesus is coming so best prepare’ type of lady,” She let the hat float out of her hand and settle onto the top of her bag. She snickered. “No surprise he still hasn’t showed. At least his deadbeat uncle had the courtesy to show his face around here.” 

Lucifer. Armageddon. The trials that started it all. He re-lived every difficult moment in the span of a few seconds. He shook his head. “I assume your grandmother no longer lives here.”

“Lives just north of town off of the 395,” She struggled to lean down and grab the straps of her duffle bag. “Gated community. Real nice. Even got a bed six feet in the dirt to take a nap in. Right next to Gramps. Heard it’s pretty stuffy, though.” 

“They are dead,” Cas nodded. “I am sorry.”

Fallon slid the straps over her right shoulder and shrugged. “Don’t bother me none. They were old, anyway.”

The sounds of metal pounding against metal emitted through the screen door on the front entrance. Her head turned toward it and sighed.

“Those idiots know how to hook up a trailer?”

“I have never seen them do it before,” Cas answered honestly. She sighed. 

“Better go make sure they don’t snap the god damn thing in half. Last thing I need is a broken hitch, too,” She turned around.  “Hey,” she kicked the screen door open with her good food and shuffled outside. “Quit screwing around out here, that’s precious cargo.”

“Maybe if your hitch wasn’t older than your truck, we’d be done by now,” Dean yelled back. “This trailer could be its great great grandkid.”

“Aw, quit your bitchin’ and get to hitchin’.” 

Cas watched the three bicker over the trailer for a moment before examined the living space one final time. He wondered what Fallon's life had been like in this small home, learning about the world with the help of her family. He wondered if she had siblings, or played sports, or owned any animals. His stare settled on the set of stairs leading to a second story. 

The staircase was hardly wide enough to accommodate Cas. It was a short climb, the house was relatively small; only 21 steps leading to a tiny nook with two doorways on each side. The door on the left was ajar but the room was completely empty, save for two empty bed frames and some type of dresser. The door on the right was closed. The faded white wood was covered with stickers and photos of various vintage cars.

Inside was no different. The walls were covered with framed photos of cars and trucks alike, coupled with magazine cut-outs and faded posters. Burgundy curtains hung over the windows. The queen sized bed was unmade. The full-length mirror in the back corner of the room was shattered near the center. A large wooden storage bench sat next to it. A stack of automobile magazines was scattered in the middle of the floor. The newest issue was from December of 2004.

The room was like the rest of the house. Frozen in time from a by gone era. Clothes scattered across the floor. A woman’s undergarment even dangled from an ajar dresser drawer that sat along the back wall. A notebook and backpack lay open in the sea of sheets swimming on the mattress. He glanced over his shoulder and made his way to the bed, flipping through a few pages. The lines were filled with algebraic equations. Fairly basic problems of isolating the variable ‘x’ from its counterpart ‘y’. And in the top corner a name was scribbled in messy writing. ‘Fallon Fawkes' with a date: March 6, 2006. 

_ ‘You didn’t see her at graduation?’ _

_ ‘Couldn’t tell ya. Didn’t graduate.’ _

The screen door opened downstairs. The notebook fell from his fingers like it had burned his skin. “Castiel?" Fallon's voice traveled up the stairs and echoed in the room. "Where the hell are you? Let's go."  The screen door clattered closed once again. 

On his way out of the room he spotted a single photo on the dresser. It was a landscape photo taken of Fallon and another man. She was young; no older than mid-teens. Gone were the dark circles and cracks at the edges of her eyes. Her freckles even seemed brighter, more defined on her sharp features. She was laughing, her arms wrapped around the man’s torso and her cheek pressed into his shoulder. The man was older, his head balding and his shirt coated in grease. He was wearing that same wrinkled baseball cap he had seen Fallon take with her to the truck. Her auto shop stood tall and proud behind them. And in the very back of the picture: a burgundy vehicle with a white stripe over the top. 

“Let's go, angel,” He heard her smack the screen door with her hand. “Trailer’s hitched, we gotta split.” 

He studied the picture for a moment longer before sliding it under his arm. He gave the room one last glance before shutting it away once again.


	14. Fallon

The first thing she noticed about the bunker was the temperature.

Place was a god damn ice box. About as cold as that hole Stevie Rae was keeping her meat meals chilled in under the OIT. Her bad hip was stiffer than a two by four. Wasn’t Kansas supposed to be warm?

Then again, they were in a tin hole underground. 

She had to give them props, though. The place wasn’t half bad. It had everything: a library, separate bedrooms, a kitchen, a shooting range. Hell, she expected them to be huddled on the floor of some air-tight vault with nothing but dry rations to keep them tied over for weeks. Instead, she had her own little bedroom a few doors down the hall and a bathroom right next to it. She might even argue that the bunker was nicer than her own place back in Oregon.

But she’d never tell them that.

The first couple weeks had a lot of sitting around. Reading. Talking. Eating. Mostly eating. On Dean’s end, anyway. Fallon swore he had four stomachs. He’d probably eat seven cheeseburgers in one sitting if no one was around to stop him. Sam, on the other hand, mostly drank smoothies and munched on salad. And Castiel, well, she didn’t see him eat a single thing. Didn’t say much, either. Guess he left his conversation back in Lakeview.

Good.

Every morning was the same. Up before the crack of dawn. A try at an awkward shower with her cast sticking out of the tub. Factor in at least ten minutes of her struggling to put some clothes on. A pathetic hobble to the kitchen for a pot of coffee. Sometimes two. An ungraceful plop down at the main table in the middle of the main room. She’d hike her cast up onto the chair in front of her and sit far back in her chair.

And wait.

Sam would show up an hour later. Practically prancing from the hallway in some sort of track suit and a towel around his neck. He’d nod at her as he passed, heading toward the stairs.

“Morning, Fallon,” He’d smile.

“You, too,” She’d reply.

What kind of sick fuck went running for fun? Might as well let a rugaroo chase you around the block and call it a game. At least you were running for a reason. Not because you wanted to sweat. 

About a half hour later he’d come staggering back in. Huffing and puffing like a coal chimney. He’d leave a trail of sweat behind him all the way down the hall and to the bathroom. He was lucky she didn’t slip and break her other ankle. 

Castiel would come next. Those dark dress shoes would clomp down the steps from the front door and bounce off the books lining the library shelves. She never saw him leave. Only saw him come in. He’d pass by with a short nod.

“Good morning,” Always sounded forced. 

“Yeah,” She’d nod behind her coffee mug.

“Do you need more coffee?” 

“No, I’m good.” 

“Alright.”

And that was it.

Every morning, he’d ask the same thing. ‘Do you need more coffee?’ Did it look like she needed more coffee? Was he trying to tell her something? Did she really look that fucking tired? He never explained. And she never asked. 

They wouldn’t see Dean until damn near the crack of noon. She’d be getting ready to make lunch when he’d come stumbling through the hallway like he’d just woken up from a coma. Practically smack into the fridge door she’d be behind on his way to the long-cold coffee pot. 

Driving wasn’t an option with this cast. And there wasn’t a Subway in sight in this town. So, she had to make her own turkey and cheese. She found herself missing her usual lunch routine with every poorly made sandwich she slapped together. Not to mention the peace and quiet that came with her life back in Lakeview.

That was the second thing she noticed.  When it came to questions, these fucks knew no limits.

Every second seemed to be filled with some kind of question. Some type of research. They were relentless. Nothing stepped over bounds. In the course of a week, she repeated herself at least four times. Little things. Like what color the spirit bitch’s hair was. Or if her heart rate was fast or slow after a dream. Or how real the dreams felt while she was in them. Why did it matter? How would that help anything? But Sam wanted to know every little detail. Said it would help them figure out what the Ark wanted. 

But they wanted to know. And she wouldn’t be able to drive out of here any time soon. So, Fallon answered their questions. The chick’s hair was blonde. Her heart rate would depend on if she actually slept that night or not. They felt real at first, but after getting them every night you start to figure out that they might not be as real as you think. She told them about the cave. The weird lake in the desert. How the Ark had showed her their motel room number and bits of conversations before they happened. How the bitch had shape-shifted into some kind of knuckle dragger before she shoved her off the cliff. Everything that could be classified as ‘crucial information.’ And when Dean asked if she had left anything out, she told them the truth. 

Nothing important.

The dreams started up again right on schedule. Except now, they seemed less intense. More how they had been when they first started. No more hikes up the sides of mountains, or digging through rocks. Maybe the Ark felt guilty about fucking up her life so bad. 

Two weeks went by. Everyone had turned in hours ago. Fallon grabbed her phone for the thousandth time that night to check the time. 2:08 A.M. And she hadn’t slept a wink. “Great,” She muttered, tossing her phone somewhere at the end of the bed and kicking off the sheets. Sitting in this room wasn’t gonna do her any good. Maybe moving would help tire her out.

Her crutches seemed to double in volume at the dead of night. At least she was barefoot. From what she knew, Dean fell asleep with his headphones in half the time. Sam could sleep through a nuclear attack. And Castiel, well, she had no clue. His room was somewhere down the hall a bit farther into the bunker. He had to be up even earlier than her if she never saw him leave every morning for his little ‘walks.’ Maybe he had trouble sleeping, too.

The garage lights took a second to kick on when she flipped the switch. Dean had mentioned that the few classics parked inside belonged to some of the guys that used to live here. ‘Men of Letters.’ Whatever they were, money must have been no object to them. Some of the bikes laying around were probably worth at least ten thousand each. The cars even more. They were nice pieces of equipment. But nothing like her Chevelle.

The car was too beat up to park in one of the empty slots along the walls. The tires were pointed out of the wheel wells and the passenger door was sticking out of the frame. When they towed her in, they had to leave her in the middle of the garage. She looked so sad between her rows of well-preserved brothers and sisters. Broke Fallon's heart to see her like that. Pa would’ve had a fit.

Fallon managed to haul a chair in front of the Chevelle. Her pad of paper and pencil on the seat threatened to fall as it skid. It didn’t. The crutches clattered to the cement floor as she collapsed into the chair, the notebook smacked the ground right alongside her. The hood had dented pretty good near the middle of the grill, just the right height for her to swing her cast up onto and let it sit. 

She tried to come out here once a day to take inventory of what needed to get done. A lot of cosmetic work. New axels in the front and back. One of the turbos would need to be replaced. A whole new exhaust system, which would take her a month to re-build alone. Most of it was shit she had just installed last year. Now it was all just scribbles in a notebook, a list of difficult and expensive repairs. She groaned into her hands, her fingers sliding from her eyes into the loose mop of hair on her head. “Why didn’t you take the fucking truck,” she said for the millionth time. “Fucking stupid.”

“Fallon?” She hadn’t moved so quick in a long time. Her legs shot up and her torso whipped around at the same time, leaning up against the front of the Chevelle in some kind of defensive position. Her muscles relaxed. It was Castiel.

“What the hell are you doing out here?” 

“I was going to ask you the same thing,” He was still wearing his usual detective get-up. She must have looked extremely underdressed, in nothing but a ratty old shop shirt and a pair of grey sweats. They were at least two sizes too big, and nearly fell off her hips. “It’s two in the morning. Why are you awake?”

“Why are _you_ awake?” 

The little shit rolled his eyes. “Angels don’t sleep.”

“At all?”

“No.”

“But you’re in a human body, right? Humans sleep.”

“Like I said, angels don’t.” 

Fallon narrowed her eyes. “That don’t make much sense.”

Castiel sighed. “The science behind it is complicated to explain. Just trust me when I say that sleeping is not an option.”

Angels didn’t need sleep. So that was why she never saw him leave in the morning. Chances were he left before the sun even came out. “What the hell do you do at night, then? While everyone’s sleeping?”

“I have found ways to occupy myself.” 

“Like?”

“You did not answer my question,” He started toward her slowly, the heels of those dress shoes almost twice as loud. “Why are you still awake?”

“Dunno. Might be ‘cause I’m freezing my ass off in the middle of Kansas almost fifteen hundred miles from home,” She shrugged. “Could be because I haven’t eaten since breakfast. Maybe both.”

“Why haven’t you eaten?”

“’Cause I’m sick of all the healthy shit in this place,” Fallon huffed out a breath and crossed her arms. “Jesus, y’all ask too many questions around here.”

“You’re referring to our questions about your dreams.”

“Great work, Sherlock.”

“How else do you expect us to piece everything together?” They were only a few feet away from each other now. She pushed off the hood and leaned on her good foot. 

“I dunno, maybe unfurl those wings of yours and fly to heaven for answers.” 

He clenched his jaw. “Heaven is not accessible to me.”

“What, they kick you out?”

He was quiet.

“Whatever,” She set her gaze out toward one of the classic cars near the back of the garage. “Just not used to to talkin’ so much.”

“If you are so advertant to talking, I could always read your thoughts.”

“First of all, stay the fuck out of my head," She held up a finger. “No one likes a snoop.”

“It’s always an option.”

“Actually, it ain’t.”

His lip tugged at the corner just a bit. He had nice teeth. Picked a pretty good meat suit for his visit to Earth. She sniffed and went to wipe her nose. Her palm was coated in a thin layer of sweat. It was cold down here. Why the hell was she sweating? 

Fallon must have looked sick. His smile faded into that same worried expression he wore half the fucking time. “Fallon…” He was at her side in record time and went to touch her head. 

“I’m fine,” She swatted his hand away, leaning back against the Chevelle. “Think I just need to eat something.”

But that wasn’t what this was. She knew it. And when the grey walls of the garage started blurring into a bright white light she wasn’t even surprised.

“You see that?” The entire garage was burning in the glow. Blinding. It was impossible to ignore. 

“See what?”

Of course he couldn’t see it. “The walls,” Almost to herself. Basically to herself.

“What is wrong with the walls?”

She hardly heard him over the vibration in her ears. The light must have been giving off some type of energy. Her entire body was reacting to it. She could feel everything. The blood pumping in her arms. The heart beat under her shirt. The way her lungs expanded and collapsed with every shallow breath. Every sense was stronger, more powerful. Her lips began to tingle and she parted them on impulse.

Castiel was still beside her. His mouth was moving but nothing came out. It felt like slow motion when he grabbed her arm and shook her gently. Her spine curved like a wave under her skin with the movement. The joints in under his fingers shifted back and forth. She watched his lips move, forming soundless words. ‘Fallon, Fallon,’ he kept mouthing. 

Then she saw it.

Thick, black strokes appearing along the white walls. Not English. The symbols curved in strange ways, connecting patterns and shapes that didn’t seem to belong together. Individual drawings and designs clumped together in weird amounts. They showed slowly at first then quicker with time. Covering every inch of the four walls around them. Then the ceiling. Eventually, the floor beneath their feet. The light behind the ink cast a shadow of the text onto her own skin. It was strange. Disturbing, even. Enough to make your skin crawl and your spine tingle when you saw it.

She didn’t even feel the cement when her knees hit the ground, her hands fumbling for the notebook and pencil. The slap when it hit the chair echoed through the light, like a yell in a subway tunnel. The lead glided across the paper like a knife through butter. Page after page. Line after line. Her fingers trembled around the pencil. Muscles twitching. Head pounding. Her lips formed some kind of nonsense under her breath.

“Fallon!” She came to. The garage was back to normal. Castiel was crouched down beside her, his huge hands on her shoulders and gripping tight. She blinked wildly. “Fallon, what the hell is going on?”

“I don’t-“ Her knees. God damn, her knees. That white light wasn’t helping much anymore. The bones in her knees screamed bloody murder. “-fuck.”

“What were you saying?” He said.

Fallon furrowed her brows. “About the walls?” She squinted her eyes, trying to push through the pain.

“You were speaking in a different language,” She shook his hands off. Her body felt so weak. “I couldn’t understand it- it sounded like some form of Enochian.”

She scoffed. “I hardly know English. You can’t sit there and tell me I was speaking in tongues.”

“Your notebook says otherwise,” He turned the book toward him. The walls stared back at her from the pages. There were at least ten pages full of the weird symbols. She didn’t even realize she’d written that much. “What language is this?”

“How should I know?”

“Strange. The characters resemble Enochian but… aren’t,” He studied a page before speaking again. “Can you read it?”

“I told you already, I got no clue.”

“You are not a prophet, then,” He turned to the last page. “I wonder why this spirit is suddenly sending you these messages.”

“Not exactly a new thing,” Shit. Her lips clamped shut. His eyes clouded over like a god damn hurricane.

“What?”

“Well, I-“

“This has happened before,” It wasn’t a question. A statement of fact. A very deep, pissed off statement of fact.

Too late to turn back now. So she shrugged. “Few times.”

“And you neglected to tell us this because…“

“’Cause I just figured it was basically the same shit as the dreams,” She hissed at the volume of her own voice. It was like the world’s worst hangover. “Didn’t think it was anything worth repeating.”

“Anything related to this case is worth repeating,” He sighed. “I don’t suppose you’ve written these characters down before.”

She had.

Truth was, these little mini ‘classroom visions,’ as she called them, came and went a few times. Maybe a handful. She’d always assumed it was some sort of post-hunters stress pushing her brain to make up some random pictures. The first time it happened, she’d been so shocked that she forgot to write it down. Second time she got enough of a grip to jot down a couple lines. After the third time, it came natural. So natural, in fact, that she could probably draw those little pictures like it was her God-given language. Trouble was, she couldn't read what she wrote down. 

Her room in the bunker wasn’t much to look at. Four bare walls. A queen sized bed. A desk with nothing but a lamp thrown on top. Her duffle bag still sat on her desk chair, spilling with random shirts and pants. The only thing she had unpacked was her turntable and records, which sat proudly on top of the dresser on the wall facing the desk. 

Castiel watched her dig through her duffle bag from the doorway. Not a single entity in existence knew about this book, except her. ‘The Book of Crazy.’ Her Book of Crazy. An old black composition book she’d found years ago in one of the kitchen drawers at home. Now, it was tangled in one of her old sport bras. It floated to the floor before she tossed it to him. “In all her glory.”

He opened the it like it was some ancient piece of text written by God himself. Pulled open the cover with delicate fingers and held it in both hands. His eyes darted across every line, squinting sometimes and tilting his head at others. Like any of it actually meant something to him. Like he could fucking understand it. 

“Got anything over there, Shakespeare?” 

“It doesn’t make any sense,” He made the trek to the desk in about three long ass strides and set the notebook down. “These words are Enochian in nature but don’t read as such.” He pointed to one squiggle in particular. “This symbol is similar to the Enochian’s equivalent of ‘F,’ but the one drawn here has too many lines.”

“I wasn’t exactly aiming for an A on penmanship here.”

“No, it’s consistent,” He turned the page and pointed to another. “Here it is again.” 

“Maybe Ark’s got it wrong, then.” 

“If this is truly an entity created by the Lord, that wouldn’t be possible,” Castiel looked at her. “And you’re sure you can’t read a single thing on this page.” 

“As sure as I was the first time you asked.”

His shoulders hunched a little bit. Like another fifty pounds was added on. “Is there any other information you’re withholding that I should know about?”

“Just another dark and depressing back story that shaped me into the affectionate woman that stands here today,” Fallon meant it as a joke but it tasted pretty sour coming out of her mouth. She slapped a tight-lip smile on to help push the sarcasm. “Like everyone else down here.”

He stared at her for a good minute. A long, solid minute that felt close to eternity. After about ten seconds she started feeling uncomfortable. Her eyes darted anywhere but his face. Was he reading her mind? God, damn it, now she was gonna be paranoid about that shit. Those blue eyes finally broke away and he grabbed the notebook. 

“Make sure to speak up next time if you think of something,” He tossed the words over his shoulder as he left, pulling the door closed behind him. 

Jesus, he was weird. 

~~

Hell might as well have broken loose in the bunker.

Apparently, this notebook was some kind of ‘breaking news.’ Sam about had a stroke when Castiel showed him the next morning. Forgot about his morning run all together. Sat his track-suited ass down in that mahogany chair and started combing through books. Took pictures of her notebook at twenty different angles. Called everyone in his contact list. She half-expected the ‘why-didn’t-you-tell-us-this-sooner’ spiel from Fabio himself but got nothing even remotely close. Castiel must have told him about their little conversation earlier that morning. 

Dean, on the other hand, must've not gotten the memo.

“How do you ‘forget’ something like this?” He slapped the book down onto the table and spoke behind his teeth. “We’ve been grilling your ass for half of March now while you’ve kept this under our nose the whole time?”

“Well, you got it now,” Fallon scoffed from her chair. She crossed her arms and threw him her best smug. “So, you didn’t get it on D-Day. Who cares?”

“I care because I don’t know what else you aren’t telling us about this crap,” He pounded his fists into the end of the table and leaned over toward her. “We could be over here sittin’ like ducks while you know exactly what this thing can do.”

“I know just as much as you do,” Her voice started to scrape her throat. Getting loud wasn’t a usual occurrence for Fallon. Hell, talking wasn’t a usual occurrence. “Boy-Wonder over there prolly knows the most about this shit. I’m just the lucky winner who gets to the insider scoop,” The world’s vaguest inside scoop. It couldn’t even be considered inside knowledge. It’d be better to call it ‘A Brief Glimpse.’ The briefest of glimpses. 

“Care to share with the rest of the class?”

“I have. Repeated myself about ten times. Maybe listen a little better.” 

“Maybe think a little harder, see if anything else comes to mind.”

The blood in her face heated up about twenty degrees. Fuck him. Fuck this place. “I don’t have to put up with this,” Fallon pushed herself up as fast as her one leg could go and grabbed her crutches. “I handled all this _just_ fine on my own for almost a decade. I can do it for another three.”

“And then what? Crash your next fixer-uper into the Atlantic?” His words followed her to the hallway. She froze mid-swing. “You can’t run from this. This thing wants you. Whatever the hell it is. Ignoring the problem won’t do a damn thing.”

“Pretty ironic that you’re telling me all this shit about ‘ignoring the problem,’” She whipped her torso around to face him. She’d finally gotten good turning on one foot. “From what I’ve heard that’s exactly what’s gotten y’all into half the little disasters this world’s seen in the last decade.”

Someone’s phone started ringing. Some loud and up-beat ringtone. Sam answered after two rings while Dean’s bare feet slapped against the floor as he closed the space between them. He was still in his PJ’s. Plaid pants and a Black Sabbath tour shirt from the early 2000’s. “I did what I had to do to protect my own. All we’ve done is sacrificed ourselves, everything we’ve loved and stood for, just to keep this ungrateful piece-of-shit world turning.”

“And what a bang-up job you’ve done. Real swell. Let Lucifer fly free from Hell and jump started the apocalypse,” She leaned over her crutches to clap a few times. “Hey, heard you were supposed to be Michael’s vessel for their little family reunion. How’d that go? According to plan?”

Castiel was on his feet now. Dean’s face was turning crimson like the inside of a thermometer. Fallon swallowed.

“You try getting thrown into some prophecy you have no control over and see how you feel.”

“I do know how it feels, actually,” It was almost comical how close their faces were. Noses nearly touching. If she wasn’t so pissed she may have made a crack at it. “Apparently, I’m living one right the fuck now. So why don’t you lay off before I start swinging my fists around.”

“Guys,” Sam called from behind Dean.

“What?” They turned at the same time, spoke at the same moment. They fixed their glare on one another then back to Sam.

He swallowed, his Adam’s Apple bobbing like a green apple in a Halloween dunk tank. His phone was back down on the table face down. “I, uh-I think I got something.”

Those calls Sam had been putting in all morning paid off in the end. He sent a set of pictures to some hunter out of Florida who knew a good deal about different cultural belief systems. Of course, she had no freaking clue what the hell it was. But, according to Sam, her uncle might. But she had no way of knowing for sure. “He changed his phone number a year ago and never reached out with his new number,” Sam had explained while they shoved some bags into the Impala. “Wadia’s had her hands full with djinn’s in Georgia or else she’d have checked on him months ago.”

Dean slammed the trunk closed and twirled the keys around his finger. “Looks like the doctor’s making a house call.” 

Checotah, Oklahoma was only about a six-hour drive from Lebanon. Might as well been twenty. After Dean’s little display of rage Sam insisted on driving this time, having to nearly pry the keys from Dean’s balled-up fist. He pouted from his place in the passenger seat while Fallon and Castiel, of course, rode back bench. You could hear a god damn feather hit the mats through the thick fog of silence they’d settled into.

Fallon had known about the Winchesters long before they showed up in her driveway. Stories were plenty in the tight-knit hunters community. The few hunters she’d come across had plenty to tell. The first time she’d heard the name was in a little dive bar somewhere in the middle of Nebraska, back when she first started this insane life. Word had it that some kind of tech geek worked out of the back room of the pub. She imagined some fat mamma’s boy who finally crawled his way out of his parent’s basement. What she got was Billy Ray Cyrus’ backwater twin. It was a barrel of laughs until that bad eighties haircut turned into Bill Gates, explaining some ‘demon tracker’ he’d built for a family called the Winchesters. Suddenly his mullet didn’t look all that stupid. 

The second time she’d heard it was almost two years later, in the boonies of Louisiana. Demon activity was strong in the area and she decided to check it out. Her search led her to some creepy ass barn in the middle of no-where. One quick sweep of the place with her nerves on edge and she started swinging her blade at the first sign of movement. Wasn’t a demon. Turned out to be some hunter named Paul who was lost his wife years before. Common goals forced them to team up for the rest of the hunt. It was the first and the last time she worked with anyone. Stories were exchanged, but one stood out: Dean Winchester had been pulled from hell. How? No one had a clue. 

The next time she heard their name was the last time. She’d run out of options. Trails had all gone cold. Gone was her bubbly teenage personality, replaced with something more firm and darker. Her guard had never been higher. With no-where left to look and her patience worn to the bone, her hand was finally forced: she had to ask for help. Weeks of asking around led her to some salvage yard slash house on the outskirts of Sioux Falls. Guy that ran it was apparently the common grandfather to all hunters alike. There wasn’t a monster killer in the states that didn’t know his name. 

She had to admit, the old timer knew his shit. When it came to demons he was all but a walking encyclopedia of knowledge. If he didn’t know an answer he knew someone who did. Six hours and half a rack of beer later, she knew more about those dirt-dwellers than Lucifer himself. It wasn’t until she halfway out the door that he spoke of them.

She must’ve isolated herself pretty damn well from the hunter’s community, since the Apocalypse rising was news to her. Sure, the demons she tangoed with would spout their propaganda about ‘their Father rising’ and the usual bull, but she never thought it was true. According to him, ‘his boys’ were aiming to stop it. The Winchesters. Seals were breaking left and right and they were running out of time. An all hands on deck situation. But when he asked if she’d be interested in helping them out, she’d opted out. She had her own demons to worry about.

‘Watch out for that ol’ ’67 Impala rollin’ around these states,’ He’d clapped her on the shoulder, a smirk forming somewhere behind his scraggly beard. His trucker hat was coated with dirt and stains, just like Pa’s had been. It was comforting. ‘You ever in a bind, those idjits will get ya out.’

Mighty ironic that the SS series ended up finding her. 

Her stomach was begging for dinner by the time they pulled up to the motel. Hardly a soul to be seen. Fallon counted five cars total in the lot. Sam threw the Impala in park under the welcome awning and shifted a bit in his seat. His wallet came to view. “Alright, I think this card’s almost maxed,” He pulled out a Citi Bank credit card. “Cheapest situation possible. If the smoking room is less, get it.”

“What happened to the Mastercard?”

“Maxed.”

“The Valley First Credit card?”

“Maxed.”

“That American Express I put under Florence Nightingale?”

“Still don’t know how you pulled that one off,” Sam snorted. “But we ran that one dry couple months back.”

“Well, you filled that Rabobank form out last week. Should’ve come in by now, right?”

Sam swallowed. “I thought it was your turn.”

“I did the Citi Bank one back in December and the American Express in July. It’s your turn.”

“Well, I didn’t-“

“Oh, will y’all shut up for two god damn seconds?” Fallon shoved the door open and all but threw her crutches to the pavement. She’d never seen two grown men bicker so often. How did anything get done around here? “I’ll get the rooms.”

Three more door slams followed her own. “Fallon, it’s fine.” Sam spoke to the back of her head. “We have enough for a room this time. You don’t need to pay for it.”

“Let’s get a couple things straight here,” She turned to face them. “First of all, I don’t share rooms. Period. Shacking up with walls between us is something I can deal with. Sharing air while I listen to you snore at all hours of the night is something else entirely.”

“I don’t snore that loud,” Dean muttered.

“Second, that credit card theft bullshit is coming to a hault right here,” She reached into her pocket and fished for her money clip. “From now on, we use funds we earn. Our money, our problems.”

“What do you want us to do? Get jobs?” Dean scoffed. “We’re hunters, not gas station attendants.”

“What’s wrong with working at a gas station?” Castiel sounded close to offended. Dean’s lips stretched apart a bit and clapped him on the shoulder.

“Nothin’ at all, buddy,” He patted him a few more times. “Working at a Gas n’ Sip is one of the best jobs you could have.” Castiel held his glare.

“Not that kind of job,” The crutches made a dull echo under the awning on her way to the lobby door. “I’ll call up Ricky, see if he’s still in business.”

“What business?” Sam asked.

“Yeah, and who the hell’s Ricky?”

The doorbell chimed behind her as the door swung shut.

The office was tiny. Almost closet-sized. A bubbly blonde beamed at her from behind the front counter, her face almost splitting at the sight of a customer. Her cheeks matched the portrait of roses that hung behind her elaborate pony tail. “Welcome to the Stay Inn!” Fallon was surprised the glass door didn’t shatter. “How’s your day goin’ so far?”

“Fine,” Her money clip made a dull thud against the counter’s wood surface. It had more cracks and divots than smooth surface. “Need two rooms. Three to one ratio. Don’t have to be next to each other.”

“Alright, let’s see here,” Her fingers flew across the keys. Fallon squinted at her name tag. ‘Dolly.’ How fitting. “I got two available a bit further down the lot. Two queens in both.”

“That’ll do.” Two hundred dollar bills slid easily from the clip’s pinch. Dolly accepted it with another face-splitting grin. “Uh, does one of them have a couch? Or some kinda pull-out bed?”

Her entire face twisted while she read the screen. Then relaxed. “They both do, ma’am.”

“Alright,” The room fell silent save for her nails across the keys. Hated that sound. Always had. “Joint looks pretty vacant. No one coming to check out Carrie Underwood's old stomping grounds?”

Dolly sighed. A strand of blonde hair flew from her cheek and back into her up-do. “Guess not. Usually Friday’s bring a lotta tourists. Country lovers from all around. But lately, it’s been as quiet as a church mouse.”

Fallon hummed. 

“I don’t blame ‘em, though. With all this plague nonsense going on,” She opened a drawer and pulled out two sets of key cards. “I’d steer clear, too.”

Fallon’s eyes darted from their aimless wander and trained back on Dolly. "Excuse me?”

“You haven’t heard about it? Thought it was all over the news,” The doorbell chimed behind her. Fallon snuck a glance over her shoulder. Castiel. “Folk’s have been droppin’ like flies from a bad sickness. Doc Weathers says it looks something like the plague.”

“The plague. Like, the bubonic kind?”

“That’s what he keeps saying,” Dolly slid the key cards and her change on the counter. She kept one card separate from the other three. “Dunno what’s gotten into our little town. Nothin’ like this ever happened before.”

“When did this start happening?” Castiel spoke from Fallon’s right shoulder. All business-like. His random entrance threw Dolly off for a second before she got a grip.

“’Bout a month back. Started with Kat Fricke’s little girl. Just turned twelve in January. Week and a half later it was Gus Harvey. Most recent was Achilles Driver,” Dolly shook her head. “I wasn’t much good in history class, but from what I remember ‘bout plagues it was back during the Medieval times. Why’s it coming back full tilt in our little town?”

“Very strange,” Castiel muttered. Fallon stared at the key cards on the counter.

“Look at me, ramblin’ about nonsense again,” She was practically sweating through that fancy ponytail of hers. Her fake laugh was louder than her actual voice. “I didn’t mean to scare y’all off.”

“Ain’t scaring me none. Seen worse than some plague,” Fallon collected the change and the single key card and dumped it all into her pocket. She slid the rest in Castiel’s direction. “Trust me.”

Her face had done a one-eighty from her initial greeting. Every feature seemed to drag against the floor. “Just hope it don’t get much worse.”

“Yeah, well-“ Fallon bit the inside of her lip. “Keep to you and yours. Probably nothing.”

That seemed to help. Her eyes brightened a little more. “You too, ma’am. Both of y’all have a good night.”

Castiel held the door for her. When the metal trim locked into place behind them she turned her glare in his direction. “How’d you know?”

He tilted his head. Barely. It was hardly a movement. “Know what?”

“In there. ‘Bout the plague.” Her thumb jabbed toward the lobby door. “Second she said something you stormed in like a hurricane on the harbor.”

“I was not aware the town had been infected by the bubonic plague until she said something.”

“No, shit, I got that. I meant-“ Her jaw loosened a bit as the gears in her head started turning. It hardened back up just as fast. “You read my god damn mind, didn’t you?”

There it was again. That smile. Just a tiny pull at the corner of his lip. Faint. Hardly noticeable. But it was there. “Fallon, I think you forget that not everyone has hearing similar to a rock.” 

Her eyes narrowed. 

“We all paid up?” Dean shoved himself between them and snagged the key cards from Castiel’s hand. “Guy leaving his room said June’s was the best burger place in town. I say we see what the hype’s about before we start hunting for Wadia’s uncle.”

“Might wanna re-think eating the food around here,” Fallon pushed passed him and crutched toward the car. “Think we’re hunting a bit more than a long-lost uncle.”


	15. Fallon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These next few chapters focus on Arabic culture, with my own take on lore that I researched. There are some sentences completely in Arabic -- see the chapter notes at the end for translation.

It was clear that the entire town was definitely ‘keeping to them and theirs.’

Fallon counted maybe six cars on the main road on their way to the burger joint. Didn’t matter that bodies were being tossed in the ground from a medieval disease. Nothing could stand between Dean and a cheeseburger. Fallon respected that. She’d be the same way if it were her and a short stack at Jerry’s.

They were the only people eating dinner at June’s. The waitress could hardly believe they had the ghal to leave their house. The girl spun a similar tale Dolly had back at the inn: three down for the count, all showing symptoms of the plague. According to the waitress, no one knew they were even sick until it was too late. Hardly any symptoms. If Fallon didn’t know better, she’d have scratched it off as some form of ‘natural selection.’ But, oh-so-lucky for her, she did know better. This had ‘supernatural bullshit’ written all over it. 

Wadia’s uncle shacked up somewhere along the west side of town. Jaul Jabbour. Wife had died some time last year. Lived alone in a three-bedroom house with his only daughter, Aaliyah. Known around town for his used book store and his ‘unique cultural background’. Which was the waitress’s mighty polite way of saying, ‘he’s from Morocco and doesn’t go to our church, which makes people nervous.’

This was exactly why Fallon couldn’t stand people. 

His front yard was patches of dead grass in a sea of dirt. A few steps lead up to a wrap-around porch that completely surrounded the old one-story house. The fabric at the bottom of their screen door was dragging along the floor panels. Like every other house in Lakeview. It was almost nostalgic.

Looking into the plague could wait a couple more hours. They’d get their business done at Jaul’s and head over to the local clinic. Besides, the guy didn’t even know they were coming. Showing up in the dead of night wouldn’t help their case.

The first time they knocked, no one answered. No barking. No meowing. Not a single footstep. Nothing. “How about putting them sonic ears to use,” Fallon muttered to Castiel.

Blue eyes rolled under the hazy sunset above them. “I don’t have ‘sonic hearing,’ Fallon. It’s just a natural ability of all angels.”

“Less talkin’, more hearin’.” 

Castiel sighed, but stepped forward anyway. The air was quiet until he spoke again. “Someone is inside. I can hear heavy breathing.”

“Ain’t a dog,” Fallon hobbled up and pounded on the door a few more times. “Mutt woulda been going crazy with this noise.”

A dull bulb flicked on above their heads. A lock clicked. Then another. One more. Then the door cracked open, a set of hard eyes peeking out from under the chain of a gold deadbolt. “Yes? Can I help you?”

Sam cleared his throat. “Hello, Mr. Jabbour. We’re sorry to bother you, but we were hoping to speak with you about something.”

“I’m sorry, I am very busy at the moment,” The wood door squealed as he started to shut it. “Maybe some other time-”

“Mr. Jabbour, please,” Castiel stopped the door with his palm. It seemed Jaul was no match for heavenly strength. “Wadia sent us. She hasn’t heard from you in a long time.”

The wrinkles around Jaul’s eyes softened just a bit in the dim light. “Wadia? You know my niece?”

“Yes,” Castiel confirmed. “She is conducting business in Georgia at the moment, or else she would have come herself.”

He held up a finger through the slit and Castiel let the door slip closed. A few more clicks and slides through the wood and a tall, stringy man was revealed. His eyebrows took up half his face while his nose covered the rest. His arms weren’t even close to filling out the sleeves of his polo. “Come in. Please.” 

Dean immediately took the invitation. Figures. Guy was shaking harder than a jitterbug out in the crisp spring air. He slid around Fallon and made to step inside before Castiel stopped him with a hand on his chest.

“What?” Dean hissed. “Freezing out here.”

“Remove your boots,” Castiel nearly growled. He turned Dean’s attention to the pairs of shoes laying around on the deck. Dean muttered some jargon under his breath as he slipped out of them. The rest followed suit. Except Fallon. She tried to make work of her Jesse’s with the toe of her cast but nothing gave. She grunted a few choice words.

“Need some help?” Sam chuckled, bending down to yank the boot off. He left it sitting next to his on the welcome mat.

“I need to get this thing off.” She muttered.

He raised a brow. “Life might be a little easier if you’d just let Cas heal you…”

“Can it, tuna,” She said as she hopped past, her sock slipping against the floor. The inside looked no different than the outside. Chipping paint on the walls. Crooked picture frames. Every time she took a step she was actually afraid the floor would collapse underneath her. The wood howled louder than a coyote in heat.

The living room doubled as some type of dining room. The kitchen table was nearly pressed up against the back of one of the longer couches. An old chandelier swung lightly from the ceiling. Its chain had completely rusted over. Fallon fumbled with one of the chairs across from Dean and Castiel and plopped down. The chair legs shifted from her weight.

“Jesus, screws need tightening on this one,” She gave it another wiggle. The entire chair trembled. She checked the one next to her. Same deal. 

“When did you last speak to Wadia?” Jaul’s thin frame slid in from the kitchen doorway, both hands clamped tight around the handles of a metal tray. A large tea pot and five cups were set up carefully along the surface. “How is she? Is she alright?”

“She’s fine, Mr. Jabbour,” Sam took a seat next to Fallon while Castiel spoke. Jaul started pouring the tea and offering one to everyone. Fallon took a wiff of the stuff. The sharp tang of mint hit her all at once and made her nose burn. She squeezed her eyes shut to push back the moisture that had started to form behind her eyelids. 

“Please, call me Jaul.” 

“Jaul,” Castiel nodded. He picked up his cup with the most gentle press of his fingers and sipped the tea. It was the first time she’d ever seen him eat or drink anything. He licked away a few drops from his lips. 

“Wadia said that it’s been a while since she spoke to you. Almost a year,” Sam said behind his tea.

Jaul sighed. Years of wear formed hundreds of small wrinkles on his face. They seemed to move and shift with every breath he took. “Yes, it has been quite some time. Things have been… difficult for us right now.”

“In what way?” 

“My wife…” She could almost feel his heart break through his chest. The pain poured from his skin and stuck to her own. It was like re-living that first year without Pa all over again. “Nazina. She passed away last January. Ovarian cancer.”

“We’re sorry for your loss,” Sam’s lip twitched. Fallon said nothing.

“It has been trying for both my daughter and I,” He rubbed his jaw, skin scraping against his stubble. “Aaliyah and her mother were very close. As were Naz and I.” 

_“Inna-lilahi wa inna elayhi raje’ooun.”_ The string of gibberish rolled off Castiel’s tongue like it was nothing. Sam and Dean stared at him like he had grown three heads. Fallon’s eyebrows became one. 

Whatever it was, Jaul appreciated it. The clouds seemed to part in his eyes, the dark features on his cheeks lighting up ten-fold. He suddenly looked five years younger. _“Shukran, ahki,”_ He smiled. “Thank you, my brother. I did not realize you were from Arabic descent.” 

“Arabic does not fall in my cultural background. But I have always found the language a fascinating subject for study,” His stare darted across the table in her direction. Her jaw was open. Damn near scraping the table top. She chugged a mouth full of the mint tea to help her case. Every taste bud on her tongue screamed in protest. 

“I might ask you to stay. See if your appreciation for cultural diversity might rub off on some residents of this town.”

“There a lot of bigots around here?” Dean asked.

“Many are good to us here. Always have been. Ten years I have owned that book shop downtown and have a strong client base,” He sipped his tea with pursed lips. “But even after the fact, despite Naz being one of the most beloved mother’s in town, there are still some who resent us for our beliefs.”

Fallon scoffed. “Probably the same one’s that voted that Cheetoh into office.”

Sam snorted behind his glass. His hair shook in time with his head. 

“What about these folk catching the plague? They been giving you any trouble?”

Jaul’s eyes drifted down to his tea, his finger slowly tracing the lip of his cup. After a moment of silence he shook his head. “The Fricke family has always been kind to us. Katherine and Naz were close friends. They would call on Aaliyah to babysit Abby Ann almost every weekend.”

“Abby Ann was the first victim, right?” Sam asked. Jaul nodded.

“Aaliyah had been babysitting her a few days before she became ill,” He sighed. “We are fortunate she did not fall victim, as well.”

“That’s pretty damn lucky,” Dean hummed, exchanging a glance with Sam from across the table. He coughed. “What about the other two? Gus Harvey and…”

“Achilles.”

“Yeah, him.”

“Mr. Harvey owned 7 Mile House over on Addison Drive. He was a stubborn man, but never treated us cruel. And Mr. Driver was the mathematics teacher at Aaliyah’s high school,” The caterpillar’s came together on his face. “This is why Wadia sent you, isn’t it? For the plague outbreak?”

Sam set his cup back into its dish and swallowed. “Why would she send us for something like this?”

“You are hunters. Yes?” He was out of his chair now, taking those long legs to one of the cabinets in the living room and shifting through a drawer. “This is what you do. Investigate the abnormal.”

“How do you figure?” Fallon nodded. The chair creaked as she turned to look at him. 

“My brother was a hunter for many years. Long before we came to America from Morocco,” He offered a leather bound book to Sam as he sat back down. Fallon leaned over his shoulder to get a look. Hundreds of old polaroids were taped to each page, along with scraggly handwriting and weird drawings of weird looking animals. A hunter’s journal. “I never wanted such a life for myself. I desired a family. A stable home. He had always been one for adventure.”

“I take it having Wadia wasn't planned,” Dean leaned forward.

“’His greatest mistake,’ as he once told me,” Jaul’s lip pulled in the corner. “He took some time off to spend with her and her mother. But, as I’m sure you’re aware, it is nearly impossible to escape the hunter lifestyle.”

“Sure do," Dean threw a look in Fallon's direction. She scoffed. 

“So, tell me, what do you think this is? A haunting of some kind?” 

“Actually, we have no idea,” Sam said. “We weren’t aware of this plague outbreak until we checked into the motel.”

“We came here for another reason,” Castiel pulled her Book of Crazy out of thin air and cracked open the first page. He slid it across the table in Jaul’s direction. “We are searching for the origin of this language. Wadia mentioned that you might have seen it before.”

Nearly every pigment of color drained from the man’s face. It was like he saw his wife’s ghost. The room was deathly silent for what felt like forever, the cracks along the pads of his fingers tracing the designs drawn out on the page. 

“Jaul,” Sam laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. His touch might as well have burned him.

“Where did you find this?” His voice was weak. The thick drawl of his accent hardly a whisper. 

“You’ve seen it before,” Castiel scooted farther forward in his chair. He was probably hanging off the front. 

“Many years ago,” He turned a page. A deep crease had formed in his forehead. His eyes had dimmed out completely. It was like the book was causing him physical pain. “In Morocco.”

“Do you know what it says?” Sam was leaning forward now. Shit, they all were. 

“N-no. For many months I tried to learn, to find someone that could. I never found success,” His entire face shifted. A heavy expression. One of purpose. “This book. Where did you find it? Who does it belong to?”

Fallon wasn’t going to say anything. This guy obviously had a vendetta out for its native speaker. They could say they just found it lying around, right? Belonged to some dead guy they stumbled on in Tennessee or something like that. But for some people at the table, it wasn’t as obvious.

“It belongs to Fallon,” Castiel motioned in her direction. God, damn it. 

That did it. A volcano exploded in his deep set eyes, firing off smoke and fire through the black of his pupil. The notebook pages slapped against the counter. Everyone flinched. 

“This belongs to you? You speak this language?” He pushed himself out of his chair so hard the table lifted on his side. His entire face was beet red. Shit.

“Look, it’s complicated-“ Dean started.

“ _Kol khara,_ _ya ibn el sharmouta,_ ” Jaul spat back. Then he brought the fire back to Fallon. “You’re one of them. _Ya sharmouta._ You son’s of bitches killed my brother.”

“Hey, I didn’t kill nobody’s brother,” Fallon was up now. This was going worse than a frolic through a minefield. “You think we’d be here if I could read that shit? That’s the whole reason we’re here, asshole.”

“Fallon,” Castiel glared at her. 

“ _Akhraj min bayti!_ Get out of my house!” He threw the notebook full-power in Castiel’s direction. Castiel didn’t even break eye contact with Fallon. He raised his hand and caught the book mid-flight, the fluttering pages freezing in his grasp. His breathing was steady, chest rising and falling under his coat, but it looked forced. Like he was putting every ounce of strength he had into keeping his cool. Fallon wondered if Jaul was as forgiving and gentle as most foreigners seemed to be.

The splinters on her nose from the door slamming in her face was enough of an answer.

~~

It rained that night.

Almost out of no-where. Clear skies one minute and the next it was a fucking down pour. Clouds randomly appeared like a shitty magic trick at a kid’s party with lightning splitting in between. It rumbled on through the night and early into the morning. They weren’t kidding about the Oklahoma storms. When it rained, it poured. 

They were back to the drawing board once again. Jaul was their first and last lead. Wadia wasn’t answering her phone. There weren’t many options at this point. 

‘Well, we’ve got a case right under our nose,’ Dean had pointed out over dinner. ‘Might as well do what we do best.’

After a few quick calls on Sam’s end (even she had to admit, going in as ‘Center for Disease and Control’ field investigators was genius) they managed to track down the second victims house. A single porch light shone above a homemade ‘Welcome to the Harvey’s’ sign hung up next to the door. And, if you listened closely, you could also hear his recently widowed wife sobbing from the other side of the door.

She managed to offer a few bits of of words between her heaving sobs. Gus was a fine man. Loved by many. A cherished local shop owner. The Harvey family had been rooted in Checotah for generations. As far as the wife knew, no one had any sort of grudge against the man. They left with about as much information as they came with. 

Sam poured over the Checotah archives well into the night, flagging anything that even remotely related to the plague outbreak. Suicides. Disappearances. Weird burial grounds the town could have been stacked on top of. Nothing really popped out at them. She spent most of the night watching Castiel pace back and forth in their motel room, staring at the pages of that little black notebook like the words would suddenly scream out at him. When her blinks started lasting longer than three minutes each, she decided to turn in for the night. 

She slept for a few hours before the storm woke her up. Their rooms faced an open field across the street, nothing but deep grey clouds and shadows of grain stretched outside her window. She pulled up one of the chairs and watched it all come down, pounding against the street and deep into the soil. After studying the storm so closely she realized that the clouds seemed to stop at the city limit a few miles away. She’d seen that before. A long time ago.

The day she buried her Pa.

It was five days after her sixteenth birthday. Beginning of February. It had been a dry year for Oregon, the winter barely brought six inches of rain at that point. It was all anyone could talk about. Half the students were out of work until the next storm hit. Nothing was growing. It was times like this that had made Fallon thankful that Pa had chosen to own a shop instead of fifty acres of land. 

He didn’t want some big and elaborate send-off. It was an unofficial Fawkes family tradition to have no ceremony what-so-ever. They hadn’t ever talked about where he wanted to have his ashes buried. All she had to go off of was some back-handed comment he’d made some years before. ‘Be nice to be next to Mamma for eternity,’ He’d told her one day while they visited her Gamma and Gampa’s grave. ‘Shady little spot under this old oak. Not a bad place at all.’ Pa had given her everything in his lifetime. If he wanted to be under that fucking oak tree next to Gamma, then by God she’d get him there. 

‘I’m sorry, Fallon, but there isn’t a plot available on that side of the cemetery,’ Mr. Wright, the town's head and only mortician, had explained. She remembered it perfectly. The grey hairs of his bushy moustache twitching with his lip. His eyes dulled from the sympathy he had. He was a kind man. Always had been. But he didn’t understand. ‘We have plenty on the west side of the yard. There’s an oak tree in the far corner I can place him under.’

But that wasn’t what Pa wanted.

She waited until the rain came. A few nights later, blowing hard and steady through town. The grave diggers wouldn’t be working through the storm. Mr. Wright was reasonable. He’d give them the night off. Grounds were probably too flooded to work on, anyway. The perfect window for Fallon to act.

You could hardly hear the chain linked fence move under her body when she climbed it. Her leg hadn’t been messed up back then. Still moved like it was supposed to. Her old t-shirt had already soaked through by the time her boots hit the mud on the other side. The shovel felt like dead weight in her hand. But not as heavy as the backpack slung over her shoulder.

It was almost hilarious. Standing over some half-assed hole at two in the morning, illegally tossing her Pa’s ashes into a cemetery just because of a random comment he’d made seven years before. Her body completed caked in mud. Blonde hair matted to her face. The thunder shaking the ground underneath her boots. It was the first time she’d ever dug in a cemetery. She didn’t know it then, but it wouldn’t be the last. 

‘I’ll find ‘em, Pa,’ Her promise carried with the crack of lightning up above. ‘I’ll find ‘em all.’

Fallon wondered if Mr. Wright ever figured it out. It had to have been obvious. She wasn’t some kind of master grave digger, and she had to rip some grass up to squeeze him on Gamma’s left side. Even if he did, she didn’t give him a chance to ask. Three days later she had the Junkyard’s doors locked tight and was halfway to Texas, hell-bent on revenge with a fire burning hot through her veins. By the time she came back, he’d been dead a good while. She shoved a twenty-dollar bill in his plot. ‘For the trouble,’ She’d told his headstone.

Fallon fell asleep in that ratty motel chair.

The sunrise woke her up, blaring in her face through the open window. Her entire left leg tingled and burned from slinging it over the arm rest. Sam would probably be up soon. After a few minutes of struggling she managed to wriggle out of the chair and back toward the bathroom. She sat on the toilet lid and let the steam build in the tiny little room, watching the water dump from the shower head and into the bathtub. She decided to shower later.

Achilles Driver had been the senior math teacher over at Checotah High School. Their next stop. Only a few cars sat out front, most of them old trucks with tools thrown into the beds. She imagined their folks probably weren’t too thrilled about their kids missing a fine day of field work for Saturday school.

“Mr. Driver was a fantastic teacher. One of the best.” They were all cramped together in the principal’s office, listening to the man himself rattle on about his staff. Mr. Lawson. Guy was stuffed fuller than a pig at the 4H. Looked like one, too. “Lotta students around here have him to thank for getting them to the university.”

“Any of them a little sour that they didn’t pass?” Dean said from behind her. The office only had two chairs. Fallon and Sam had staked claim while Dean and Castiel took the wall. “Maybe a super senior with a grudge?”

At least twenty years stacked onto Mr. Lawson’s face in a matter of seconds. “I thought you folk were with the health department. What’s a grudge got to do with a disease?”

“We’re just covering all of our bases, Mr. Lawson,” Sam offered up one of his ‘polite’ smiles. His lips locked firmly together and pulling in a straight line. No teeth to speak of. “Communicable disease outbreaks are a very serious issue.”

“What, you think one of my kids is runnin’ around my halls with a jar of medieval plague?” He scoffed. Something solid started thudding underneath the desk and against the wood. Over and over and over. He was shaking his leg. “Half these kids don’t pay enough attention through world history to know there was even an epidemic.”

Fallon smirked. “I’m sure you were one of ‘em, Mr. Lawson?”

His egg head crinkled in the forehead. “I wouldn’t say I didn’t pay attention. The history teacher back then wasn’t as energetic as Mrs. Briars is today.”

“So, this school’s been around for a long while. Probably close to, say, hundred years? Give or take?”

Fallon had his attention now. He straightened up in his seat. “What are you gettin’ at?”

“Yeah, Agent Walker, what are you getting at?” Sam muttered through his teeth.

“All I’m sayin’ is that sometimes with age comes the natural wear and tear. Walls start breaking down. Pipes rust over. Units get old,” Fallon crossed her arms and shrugged. “Maybe something starts leaking in the vents and the janitor’s can’t get to it.”

If the guy had any color in his face to begin with, it was gone now. He forced something similar to a laugh from the back of his throat. “I can assure you, agent, we are up to code here.”

“Oh, I know, Mr. Lawson. Against the law to skip building inspections. Especially in a building like this,” She slapped her chair’s arm rests with her palms and started to push herself up. “So, I'll just have a chat with the front desk and take a peek at those building inspection logs I’m sure you got-“

“Wait, Agent Walker,” He leaned over the desk and reached toward her. A fine layer of sweat shone over his bald head. Fallon’s lip pulled in the corner. Music to her ears. “We don’t need to pull those papers out. Kathy’ll be diggin’ through file cabinets for three days before she finds them,” He flashed his teeth. They were chattering. “Maybe we can… work something else out.”

“I’m sure their buried pretty deep in them folders,” Fallon slowly lowered herself back in the chair. Out of the corner of her eye, Sam’s jaw was in his lap. “So, why don’t you continue. You were saying something about a few students giving Mr. Driver some trouble?”

The man swallowed. His entire throat constricted and then dove back out. “There are a few that have caused issue in the past. Nothing serious, but it… rose some concern.”

“Got any names?” Dean had shuffled from the wall and posted up behind Sam. His arms were crossed and his legs spread apart. In another life, Fallon pictured him as a night club bouncer. 

“Trevor Cody. Had to re-take the class and couldn’t graduate. Lost his football scholarship to Stanford.” 

“Did he make any threats?” Sam asked.

“More like petty remarks. Boy couldn’t shoot a redwood trunk ten inches from his face.”

“Anyone else?” Fallon crossed her good leg over the bad. Mr. Lawson’s breathing jumped. 

“Zane Graft. Troubled kid. Slashed his tires after school in the parking lot one day,” His stare roamed around the room. “Chad Olsen has always been a class clown.”

“And?” Fallon arched a brow.

There it was. The hitch she’d been looking for. The king of the castle shifted in his leather thrown as his castle fell around him. “No one else I can think of.”

“Interesting,” Fallon hummed. “I wonder if Kathy’s left for her break yet…”

“There is another,” His sunken eyes were squeezed shut. Like the words actually hurt coming out. “But I don’t think it’s anything to look into. It’s an issue that’s been resolved.”

“You gonna sit there and stutter like a broken sprinkler or are ya gonna spit it out?”

“Aaliyah.” He huffed it out. “Aaliyah Jabbour. But like I said, the situation was handled and there is no longer a problem.”

Castiel moved behind her. His shoes knocked against the floor. “What was this ‘issue’ that you straightened out?”

Mr. Lawson didn’t say anything. Kept that big mouth shut. What the hell was this guy hiding? It wasn’t like they were married and going through some nasty divorce. Unless…

“You gotta be fucking joking,” Fallon spat. Her body sagged into the back of the chair. A huff of air left her mouth. There was no way. No way in hell. Right? “Tell me you’re shitting me.”

He didn’t need to say anything. She knew. He knew she knew. The fear pooled in his stare said it all. “It’s more complicated than it sounds-“

“How the fuck is it ‘complicated’?” Fallon was up out of her chair now. Her cheeks were hot. Probably burned some bright red shade. ‘Like a volcano ‘bout to erupt,’ her Pa used to tease. The pig flinched from her voice. “You’re telling me you knew Achilles was sleeping with that girl and y’all didn’t do a thing about it?”

Dean shoved his way between her and Sam. She could feel his heat through the white dress shirt he’d thrown on for their cover. Fuck their cover. This guy made her sick.

“Mr. Driver ended the relationship. There wasn’t any need to get the police involved,” His tone was sickly sweet. The creepy mad scientist in a sy-fy movie. “Bringing it to the public’s attention would’ve been unnecessary.”

Yeah, this guy was road kill.

Fallon lunged over the the desk at him with all her strength. The pegs underneath skipped across the carpet from her weight. Her first was inches from that beak he called a nose when a pair of hands yanked her back. “Let go of me,” Her cast slammed against the desk. Hard. Pain shot up her leg. 

“He isn’t worth it, Fallon.” Castiel’s voice vibrated somewhere in her hair, his arms locking around hers to keep her still. He couldn’t do a damn thing about her mouth, though.

“Get her out of here.” Dean motioned toward the door. “We’ll deal with this.”

Fuck, Castiel had some strength underneath that ratty overcoat. He swung an arm around her waist and lifted her feet from the floor, backing out of the office as Fallon continued to her verbal tirade. Kathy was a deer in headlights as they stumbled out. Fallon was sure she was a sight to behold. Eyes bulging out of her head. Spit flying with every word she spat in his direction. A damn near 30-year-old woman with her foot wrapped up, flailing around in some guys’ arms as he carried her out of a high school. Good. She hoped they’d never forget this visit. “I hope you’re next on that plague’s shit list!”

Castiel hauled her down the hall. They passed the detention room. Through the open door, a few kids shot out of their desks to watch the show. “Your principal’s a low-life scumbag,” She called at them. Castiel gave her arm a squeeze in warning but didn’t try to stop her. One of them pulled out his phone. “Watch your backs, who knows what else he’s hidin’ under those neck rolls of his.”

He shoved the front door open with his back, stuttering down the front steps with her still in tow. At the bottom she wriggled free. “Put me down,” He loosened his hold and she fell forward, catching the cement railing to keep her upright. She swatted his hand away when he tried to help. “I’m fine. Jesus.”

“Clearly, you are not,” Castiel said. “You can’t make a scene like that in a high school, Fallon.”

“And why the hell not? That guy’s the shit under my boot,” She stomped her foot to make a point. “He sat back and let that teacher take advantage of a high school kid and didn’t do shit about it.”

“I’m not saying he doesn’t deserve it,” She put all her weight against the railing. Her heart was racing. Lungs gasping for air. The thin, crisp breeze pricked her arm with goosebumps. “I’m saying that isn’t our job.”

“Then what is? Last time I checked, hunters help people. I say we’d be doing this town a god damn favor laying that guy out. Hell, the whole god damn world.”

“Let the police handle that filth,” Castiel was firm. His jaw clenched. “We have our own mess to deal with.”

An old Chevy chugged along in front of the school. The diesel engine roared underneath the hood. Probably an eight cylinder, from what it sounded like. She could hear the clogs scraping against each other as it passed, a little too high pitched to be well lubed. Probably was due for an oil change. 

Why couldn’t people be as easy to fix as an engine?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inna-lilahi wa inna elayhi raje’ooun -- Indeed, to God we belong and to God we shall return.  
> Shukran, ahki -- Thank you.  
> Ya sharmouta -- You bitch.  
> Akhraj min bayti -- Get out of my house.  
> Kol khara, ya ibn el sharmouta -- Eat shit, son of a bitch.


	16. Fallon

There wasn’t such thing as coincidences.

Out of the three plague related deaths in the last month, Aaliyah had been involved with two of them. Babysitting the first one. Engaging in…relations with the other. At this point, Gus Harvey was the only rogue variable - but all things come in three's. 

‘Let Dean and Sam handle this one.’ Castiel had stepped up beside her as the brothers headed up Mrs. Harvey’s porch steps. ‘You’re too worked up to approach this peacefully.’

‘Sam and Dean dance around too much. At least I hit the nail on the head.’

‘That’s what I worry about.’

The Winchesters handled things a lot different than she did. Where Fallon was blunt and to the point, Sam and Dean were gentle and methodical. Sam more so than his brother. But even with their mixed personalities, the brothers made it work. The typical ‘good-cop-bad-cop’ routine. Sam was the shoulder to cry on while Dean dug for answers. If the subject showed signs of cracking, Sam fused the pieces back together with a couple flowery words of comfort. When they were stable again, Dean pushed a bit farther. Like a pump jack in an oil field. Sam was the frame, while Dean was the bridle rods. Back and forth. Back and forth. Like they’d done it a million times.

In the end, they got what they came for. Apparently Gus' booze clientele sometimes didn’t quite hit the legal age. ‘Better for the kids to get it from them then go looking for trouble,’ as Mrs. Harvey had put it. Guess the late shop owner recently had a change of heart. Most of the kids took it decent. Except one.

Guess who?

“So, if Aaliyah was somehow connected to all three victims,” Sam slammed the passenger door and started for their motel room. “Where does that leave us?”

“Could be possessed,” Dean said. Sam held the door for Fallon on her way in. “Vengeful spirit? Maybe some kind of plague hit this town way back when and someone’s still pissed about it.”

“I already combed the town’s database. No history of disease or ancient burial grounds that could’ve been disturbed,” The motel chair groaned underneath Sam’s weight. “We could go back to Jaul’s house and sweep for EMF.”

“Pretty sure if we step foot on his lawn we’ll be shot on sight,” Dean toed out of his boots from the edge of his bed. “We might have a better chance if the Elder Scroll here hangs back.”

“Did you come out a little shit, or do you think you were just brought up that way?” Fallon snapped from the next bed over. Castiel huffed out some attempt at a laugh from the other chair.

“What about Aaliyah?” Sam opened his laptop and got to work. “Their family came from Morocco ten years ago. What if something followed them to Checotah?”

Dean whistled. “I’ve heard some wild tales from over there. We think we’re busy with skinwalkers and wraiths? They got their hands full with all kinds of weird shit.”

Sam’s keyboard clicked and clacked for a few minutes. “There’s hardly anything about the family background in the town database. It just says what part of Morocco they’re from.”

“Well, try the database in Morocco.”

More clacking. A few clicks. Then a groan. “It’s all in Arabic.”

“I can translate.” Castiel motioned for Sam to turn the computer toward him. Sam slid his chair around the table next to him. “What region of Morocco did it say they were from?”

“Uh, Oriental, I think.”

Castiel was like an elderly woman when he typed. His fingers moved slow, careful, like he was afraid to make a mistake. Fallon wondered who the poor sap was that had to teach this warrior of heaven how to use a computer. “I think I found them. There is records of a Jabbour family from a city called Zaio.”

“Anything good?” Dean joined the party and leaned over Castiel’s shoulder. Fallon scooted to the other end of the bed for a peak. 

“Plenty,” Castiel clicked on a particular line of gibberish. “Jaul ibn Omer ibn Marid Al Jabbour originates from the Mweithaga clan of the ancient times.”

“Jesus, what a mouthful,” Fallon muttered.

“Nazina ibnat Aruba Al Jabbour adopted his history since she took his name in marriage,” He clicked again. “But if we look to her maiden name…” He leaned back suddenly. “This can’t be right.”

“What is it?” Sam asked.

“Her original surname is Cheralathan,” His fingers worked a bit firmer against the keys. “Hailing from the Chera dynasty.”

“English, Cas,” Dean said.

“The Chera clan held strong beliefs in spiritual order and the preservation of their culture,” He pushed the laptop back a bit so it was easier for everyone to see. Everyone except Fallon. It was nothing but a blurry white light with some black lines. “In the early centuries, when their dynasty was on the brink of extinction, it was forbidden for Chera members to marry outside of their culture.”

Sam turned the laptop toward him and scrolled. “I take it that rule didn’t bode well with the Chera.”

“Because of the amount of men being slaughtered during the wars with other kingdoms, the male population was depleting quickly. Women were beginning to be forced into marrying within their family name.”

Dean gagged. “Gross.”

“Up until that point, women were celebrated in the Chera dynasty and allowed to have ample amounts of freedom. To suddenly be forced into marriage with cousins and brothers was quite a shock,” Castiel took the laptop back. “Many rebelled. In order to keep them in line, the Chera ruler at the time imposed a curse on those who sought marriage outside of the clan.”

“So, Jaul is cursed?”

“Not exactly,” The keys screamed from his pounding fingers. “The curse would be inflicted on the kin of the couple,” He pushed the computer back to Sam. “A curse known as ‘Kithamengo.’”

“Hold up,” All eyes fell to Fallon. “If this ‘kitha-mango’ curse only shows up when the Chera marries someone other than Chera, how come this shit don’t happen all the time?”

“The curse has more than likely thinned out over the years.” Castiel said. “It probably affected Aaliyah because Nazina was a direct descendent.”

“Also known as ‘The Eye of Eithaga,’” Sam read. “The individual, usually the product of a marriage from outside of the Chera line, is plagued with an ‘evil eye,’ and in turn, plagues others with a strong negative thought or feeling.”

“Makes sense why Professor Pedophile kicked the bucket,” Fallon clenched her fists.

“And probably why Gus Harvey caught wind of it.” Dean said. “Girl was probably peeved he cut ‘em all off.”

“Then why did Abby Ann get sick?” Sam asked his laptop. “She was just a kid.”

“Children can be... difficult to deal with,” Castiel stared at the wall, his eyebrows twitching toward the middle of his face. 

“Don’t suppose that site can conjure up some kind of miracle cure, right?” Dean grabbed the back of both chairs and leaned between them. “Might wanna act fast. Sounds like this teen’s got a bit of a temper.”

“Nothing that I can see,” Sam sighed. “Cas, you got anything?”

Castiel shook his head. “The curse was created through ancient Hindu magic. I am aware of its existence but not of its weakness.”

“Great,” Dean muttered. “So, we got nothin’.”

“Unless the cure is logged in some sort of Cheran text,” He squinted his eyes at nothing. “It’s possible that Nazina possessed some sort of documentation from Cheran times, being a direct descendant.” 

“Guess that means we’re heading back into the fire,” Dean turned his stare on Fallon. “Better bring something for the burn.”

This was gonna be fun.

~~

The sun was starting to sink behind the Jabbour household when they pulled up to the curb. Jaul’s little Subaru Hatchback was parked crooked in the driveway. The porch light was off. For a long, silent minute, no one moved an inch. 

The facts were clear: Jaul was going to flip his shit the second they stepped on that porch. There wasn’t a doubt in anyone’s mind. No one had any sort of plan. No idea what could be said to even begin to diffuse the situation. Even Sam, who seemed pretty well-versed in human interaction, couldn’t think of the right words to say. They were shooting from the hip at fifty yards back.

But what other options were there? There wasn’t a single person in this hell-hole that would be able to help them. Half the town was swimming so deep in their corrupt bullshit they were near drowning. Wadia still wasn’t answering Sam’s calls, which was concerning enough. An angel didn’t even know how to break the curse. They were in the weeds, here. Stepping away wasn’t an option. So, onward they went. And the only clear path they had was some dingy old text that Jaul might have shoved somewhere in that house. Fallon was hoping that Jaul didn’t own a rifle.

Her heart beat as loud as Dean’s fist slamming against the door. She hung back behind Sam, peeking her head out from around his arm. Now she knew what teenage boys felt like picking their girlfriend’s up for the first time. The bandana around her wrist suddenly felt too tight. She gave it a light tug as the locks began to tumble. Fallon braced herself for the blow.

But it wasn’t Jaul’s gangly limbs lurking on the other side. Instead, a petite little thing with a full head of thick curls stared back at them. Her jaw line was more defined than the edge of a Nissan Cube. The bags sagging under her eyes was like looking in a mirror.

“What?” The scowl she wore fit perfectly on her face.

Dean nodded at her. “You must be Aaliyah.” 

The girl took a few steps back. “What the hell do you want?”

“Aaliyah,” Fallon’s breath stuttered at the second voice further in the house. “ _Mn hdha?”_

“Don’t know,” Aaliyah called without a glance back. “Looks like a lumber jack biker gang.”

“Listen, I know you have no clue who we are,” Dean spoke quick. “But we need to find something your dear old dad might have stowed away in the attic. It’s time sensitive.”

Aaliyah scoffed. “Yeah, like I’m gonna just let you idiots waltz in here and tear up my house. Nice try.”

“Aaliyah, please,” Sam’s shoulders were holding at least a hundred pounds. “We’re trying to help you. We know what’s causing this plague outbreak in town.”

Every muscle under her striped sweater seemed to wake up at once. She ran her fingers through her hair a little too firmly and her nostrils flared. “It’s just some weird flu,” She shoved her hand up her sleeve to scratch her arm. “Maybe people will take flu shots more seriously around here.”

“I think we both know what’s happening around here ain’t exactly ‘normal,’” Dean said.

“ _Ibna!”_

“I already told you, father,” Her voice carried under the overhang on the porch.

“You’ve noticed it, haven’t you,” Sam wasn’t asking. She stared with doe eyes. “The pattern of their deaths. The connections.”

Her jaw gaped then clinched together again. Lips formed quiet words. Then came the footsteps.

“ _Ya lahwy,_ child, having me yell across the house-“ The door jolted open completely. Jaul. His eyebrows nearly flew off his forehead. “You.”

“Shit,” Fallon muttered.

He made quick work of his tongue in Arabic. Fallon had no clue what he was saying. But whatever it was made Castiel flinch. 

“Jaul, listen to us,” Castiel said. “This illness that’s spreading around your town isn’t just influenza. Your daughter is cursed. We need to act or else more people will die.”

“You keep away from my daughter,” He shoved a finger in their direction. “You so much as glance in her direction and I will have your head.”

“Aaliyah is cursed with the Eye of Eithaga,” Dean’s voice was starting to rise. His fist clenched against his thigh. “Since your wife married outside the Chera clan, it passed on to your kid. Those are the facts.”

“You bite your tongue,” Jaul hissed. Fallon’s eyes widened. “Nazina had nothing to do with this. She has been dead for over a year.”

“You dug your grave when you guys got hitched. Aaliyah was cursed before she was a thought.”

“Dean,” Sam and Castiel spoke at once. Castiel’s hand landed on his shoulder but he shoved it away. 

“You are dabbling with fire, boy.” Jaul’s face had darkened at least ten shades. Thunder rolled in his stare. “It would be wise of you to walk away while you still can.”

“Your daughter’s a walking time bomb and you’re too stupid to see it,” Dean was too far gone, now. Fallon rolled up her sleeve, just in case. “It would be wise of you to open your god damn eyes before she kills someone else.”

“Screw you,” Aaliyah shoved Dean hard enough to push some air from his lungs. He stumbled back and knocked into Fallon, laying her flat on her ass. Her tailbone made direct contact with the wood deck. Pain vibrated up her spine and straight to her head. “Get the hell off our deck with that crap. I can’t stand people like you. Just piss off already.”

Castiel had knelt down to check on her but their heads snapped up at the same time. Sam’s words from earlier bounced around her skull. As if on cue, Dean let out a sharp cough. 

“Dean?” Sam’s cheeks puckered in and out as he swallowed. “Dean, talk to me. What are you feeling?”

Dean swayed a bit and coughed into his hand. Castiel tugged her away from the line of fire and up to her one good foot. Aaliyah’s face of stone was starting to crack through as the scene unfolded in front of her eyes. 

“Think I caught-“ He hacked up something wet into his hand. Fallon crained her neck to look. His palm was stained with light crimson. “-some kinda bug-“

His body hit the deck like a sack of sand.

~~

The edge of the counter dug into the small of her back when she leaned against it. The kitchen was smaller than hers back home. The tiny display on the microwave showed the time through a thick layer of oil and some type of sauce: 12:39 A.M. Jaul had given her directions on where the clean drinking glasses were but she already couldn’t remember. To the left of the coffee maker or something like that? Where the hell was the coffee maker? Only thing on the counter was some busted old toaster oven. Whatever. She'd have preferred beer, anyway. 

Turns out Nazina had hauled more than a few books from Morocco. After ten minutes of digging through the attic Jaul had close to three banker boxes full of antique text, most of it written in an ancient form of Sanskrit. Jaul knew a bit from Nazima’s side of the family but most of this was more than a bit flowery. Luckily, they had a super-translator wrapped in a business suit to help out. Sam sat on the sideline and tried to make sense of what they found. From what she’d gauged, they were just starting on the second box. 

Jaul wasn’t thrilled about letting them in. He was still convinced that Fallon had constructed some master plan to kill his brother across the ocean. But after Dean had sprawled out on his porch in a pool of his own sweat and blood after a mere shove from his daughter, he softened up just a little bit. Even gave him the long couch and a blanket for the fever chills. 

While the three wiseman huddled around the kitchen table, Fallon and Aaliyah played house in the living room. Well, Aaliyah did most the work. Fallon mainly sat back and made sure Dean didn’t kick the bucket in a moment’s notice. But watching him wither away before her eyes was exhausting. His skin was a scaly green. His eyes sunk deep into the sockets of his skull. Breathing was already starting to be labored. It was one thing seeing a body that’d been ripped apart, but watching one break down was a whole other ballgame. And if the pattern rang true, she’d be looking at another one in the next seventeen hours.

A heated discussion was taking place at the table as she passed by. Castiel was trying to translate something he’d read from a bible-looking text while Sam and Jaul mapped out what it could mean. At first sight of her, Jaul’s shoulders tensed. He glared at her like she was Lucifer walking. She kept her stare glued to the carpet.

Dean was sleeping. Well, more like conked out under a sick induced haze, but as close to sleeping as he was gonna get. Aaliyah was changing the moist rag she’d laid out over his forehead with a fresh one. Fallon settled into the loveseat and propped her feet up on the arm rest. Maybe she could sneak in a power nap before shit started hitting the fan.

“Saw an interesting story on my Snapchat today,” Aaliyah called over her shoulder. She was still changing the rag on Dean’s head. Guess no nap today.

“The hell’s a Snack-chat,” Fallon muttered. 

“You can’t seriously be that old.”

“Always been told I’ve got a younger face.”

Aaliyah scoffed. “Keep telling yourself that,” She wrung out the towel into a bucket she’d drug in that was full with water. Her fingers were like twigs. “One of the guys at my school shared a video from Saturday session. A health inspector was carried out of the principal’s office by one of her partners. Wouldn’t stop screaming about the corruption in Mr. Lawson’s neck rolls.”

Fallon snorted at the ceiling. “Sounds like a good woman. Might wanna listen to her.”

“Kinda weird, though. Why does a federal health inspector care about corruption in a high school?”

“Maybe your school hasn’t been checked for gas leaks in almost fifty years,” It wasn’t a lie. 

“Could be,” Aaliyah set the rag on his forehead and swiveled on the coffee table to face her. She’d rolled the sleeves of her sweater to her elbows. Her forearms were all bone. Not a hint of muscle. “Or maybe it’s because she heard something she didn’t wanna hear.”

Fallon’s nose itched. 

“I loved him, you know,” She whispered. Fallon peaked over her head toward the kitchen table. No walls separated the two rooms, but Jaul’s back was to them. He was too lost in the books, anyway. “Why can’t anyone understand that?”

“’Cause he was old enough to be your Pa.” 

“Age is just a number.”

“He took advantage of a kid that didn’t know any better,” Fallon shifted further into the cushions. “Makes him scum in my book. Same with that worm y’all call your principal.” 

“He didn’t deserve to die," Her voice carried a little louder. Sam’s head lifted from his reading. Fallon nodded at him. “I killed all of them.”

“There’s nothing you could’ve done to keep it at bay,” Fallon said. Sam turned back to the text. “That curse is in your DNA.”

Aaliyah dipped her hands into the bucket and moved the water around. She watched the ripples like it held the answer to all of her problems. “But why now? Why not back in Morocco, or when I was younger?” 

“The curse sits dormant until it’s triggered by some kind of trauma.” 

“My mother.” 

Fallon hummed. 

The water sloshed against the plastic walls. “She should be here,” Her voice broke like glass. “I miss her so much.”

Fallon didn’t have anyone to lean back on when her Pa died. When you've already lost your entire family at age 16, you don't exactly see things in a positive light. She’d never met anyone on her Ma’s side. Gamma and Gampa were long gone at that point. Her Pa and his only brother had both fought in Vietnam, but only one of them made it home. Lakeview was tight-knit, but it wasn’t anything close to family. Fallon had been pretty good at acting tough, like the typical hard-headed sixteen-year-old, but in the end nothing beats coming home to people that care about you. Maybe that’s why she’d turned out so screwed up. 

“And you will. For a long time,” Fallon sniffed. “Rest of your life, probably. You’ll grow up, buy a car, get a house, find a job. And you’ll spend hours on the weekend staring at pictures of her, wondering if she’d be proud of how you turned out.”

Aaliyah’s hands lifted from the water. She blinked in response.

“You’ll screw up. Take a left when you should’ve turned right. Burn the wrong bridges. Total a few rigs,” Fallon chuckled. “And every time it’ll kill you inside ‘cause all you’ll be able to think about is how pissed off she’d be if she knew what you were doing.”

Aaliyah lips pulled at the corner. Some sort of humorous huff of air fought its way through. 

“But you’ll live. You’ll fight your battles. Kill your demons,” She swallowed. “And in the end, deep down you’ll know that you’ve never been alone. She’s been there the whole time,” Her eyes drifted over Aaliyah’s shoulder and toward the kitchen table. Just in time to catch a pair of burning blue’s darting back toward his book. “Watching you.”

Her nod was so firm her neck looked disconnected. The coffee table underneath her creaked. “I’ve done a lot of shit that’d make her cringe since she died.”

“I’m sure she wouldn’t have been tickled hearing about you dating your math teacher,” Fallon shrugged. “Not much you can do now. Move on. Make her proud.”

Aaliyah’s smile was genuine. Warm. Even through the tears that welled up in her eyes, her smile still shone through. Bright like the sun. Reminded her of when she was still a naïve teen, before all the shit with Pa dying and the hunter’s bullshit went down. Sure, she’d never been the cheerleading, sleep with the entire football team type of kid, but she’d been adventurous. Fun, even. Some kind of smart. Still preferred being alone, but she’d had a few friends. Back when the only thing worth worrying about was early college applications and her Calculus final. Back when her dream had been to be a mechanical engineer.

Sometimes, Fallon wondered what would’ve happened if she went back to school. Got her GED, at least. Took classes through some obscure night-time college out of Arkansas or something. Her Pa would roll in his grave if he knew she’d given it all up. Was exactly the opposite of what he wanted from her. She was still rebelling like a pissed-off teen and she was about the hit the 30 mark. Classic.

Four more hours passed and they had nothing to show from it. Sam wandered over a few times to check on Dean and give his eyes a break from reading. He looked beat. Like he hadn’t slept in three weeks. And every time he’d look down at his brother the bags on his cheeks would sag just a little bit more.

“You really should stop coming over here,” Fallon said the fourth time. Aaliyah was passed out on the loveseat. Fallon had drug a chair from the kitchen table and set it up so she was facing the long couch. “He’s ain’t getting any better.”

You’d think after watching Dean die at least six times, he’d be used to it at this point. From what she heard, this wasn’t Dean’s first tango with the Grim Reaper. He’d been around the block. They both had. But even still, Sam acted like it was the first time all over again. Like they weren’t monster hunters. Like they were just two kids, and one of them got sick and was dying. He was taller than a giraffe but he looked so small right then.

“He’ll be fine,” His lip twitched up with his nose, like he smelled a rotting corpse. He nodded to himself. “He’ll be fine.”

They were on the third box by sunrise. Jaul made for the kitchen and came back with a plate full of some kind of bread with olives and melted butter. Probably traditional Moroccan breakfast. It might as well have been cake from how Aaliyah’s face lit up. He set up a second plate on the coffee table and kissed Aaliyah on her head. Fallon’s chest tightened just enough to hurt.

Instead of checking Dean’s pulse every hour at the most, she’d amped it up to every twenty minutes, at least. He was physically shrinking underneath the blanket. In the last five hours alone he’d probably lost twenty pounds. He stopped responding to any and all attempts to wake him up. In a last-ditch attempt, Castiel had tried to pump him full of angel-magic to at least help the symptoms. No dice. This curse was a tough son of a bitch. The Chera weren’t fucking around when they put it together. Guess God and the Chera dabbled in different ends of the magic spectrum. Different galaxies, even.

Fallon was close to dozing off in that creaky wood chair when Castiel’s voice jostled her up. “Here. Here, I think I found it.”

Her head snapped up from her shoulder, Aaliyah glancing up from the rag she was changing. “Finally,” Fallon muttered, pushing herself to her good foot. The crutches dug into the blossomed bruises under her arms as she made her way to the table. She needed padding or something on these things. Was like swinging a hammer against your armpit over and over again.

“The ’Kithamengo,’ or ‘Kijicho’ is one of the most ruthless and unforgiving curses implemented by the Chera lords,” Castiel read aloud, a crowd forming around his chair. “It was created to punish those who threatened the extinction of the Chera culture and ensure the community’s survival.”

“No shit,” Fallon muttered.

“Despite creating it as a permanent punishment to those who disobeyed, Yanaikatchai Mantaran Cheral Irumporai was still merciful,” His stare glistened against the page. “There’s a ritual that can eliminate the curse from the host’s body.”

“ _Al-Hamdu lillah,”_ Jaul’s hand found his chest. 

“What about the plague that’s already in effect?” Sam’s fists clenched against the back of an empty chair. His knuckles were sheet white. “Does it just reverse the curse or everyone affected?”

“Removal of the curse affects all living traces of its power,” Castiel read. “As long as Dean is still alive when the ritual is performed, he will be healed.”

Sam’s eyes slid closed and his head dropped between his arms. 

“Alright, no time to waste here, how do we do this thing?” Fallon asked.

The pad of paper and pencil sitting across the table suddenly slid over the wood, a trail of blue mist floating behind it. Castiel’s patience was clearly running thin. Smoke fell from the pencil as he scribbled across the page. Jaul made some kind of noise in the back of his throat.

“How…” Jaul's throat actually made a sound when it constricted. In the mad scramble they’d been thrown into, they forgot to tell him about Tinker Bell. 

“He’s an angel,” Fallon said. She’d never seen a face screw into itself as hard as Jaul’s. “I know. It’s looney.”

“You are… I don’t-“

“The ritual must be performed to the God of Life," Castiel ignored all of it. He finished off a sentence and handed the notebook to Sam. “Ammon. We need every ingredient on that list.”

“Two gourds of honey beer, two gourds of sugar cane beer, a gourd of Medjool dates,” Sam tapped his thumb against the notebook as he read them off. “A cooking pot constructed by the hands of the offender.”

“Me?” Aaliyah asked.

“No,” Castiel shook his head. “You are affected by the curse. The offender it’s speaking of is the one who is being punished.”

“Me,” Jaul said. “I have many pots I hand crafted from home. They are in the attic.”

“And-“ A burst of air left Sam’s lips. “Is this-“

“Yes,” Castiel wouldn’t look at him. He nodded at the table. “The book is clear. The ritual isn’t complete without it.”

“What is it?” Aaliyah rounded the table and peaked over Sam’s arm. She had to stand on her tip-toes just to read the list. Her voice went from volume eleven to three. “’Two pints of blood from each offender.’”

“Ammon calls for a sacrifice at sunset from both parties in order to break the curse,” Castiel said. “In order to properly beg for forgiveness.”

“There has to be another way.” Jaul’s face was like stone. “Is there no work around?” 

Castiel sat as still as one of those angel statues in her Gamma’s display case. Inhumanly still. Like he wasn’t even breathing. Maybe he wasn’t. Did angels need to breath? Then, he spoke. “If one member of the offending party is deceased, the living offender will offer four pints of their blood as a sacrifice.”

Four pints? What the hell was this guy smoking, bath salts laced with crack rocks? Losing four pints would put anybody flat on their ass, but Jaul? He’d be dead on the floor before they got that much out of him. 

Jaul took a long breath. Deep, as if an elephant had sat down on his chest. His eyes closed then opened again. Every movement was exaggerated like he was trying to remember it. “There is no other way,” It was less a question and more a statement.

“This is the only text that has even mentioned the curse,” Castiel said. The book hardly made any sound when he closed the cover. “I don’t think there is a way around this,” His stare met Jaul’s. “I’m sorry, Jaul.”

“Father,” Aaliyah’s heart was visibly breaking. Her tiny fingers gripped his arm until her knuckles were white. Her nails dug into his bare skin. “This is madness. Surely Aroof knows of something. Anything.”

But Jaul had already made up his mind. He could sit and pretend he was weighing the pros and cons all he wanted, but Fallon knew the truth. The truth was, there had never been a decision. It wasn’t ever a choice.

“I will get the cooking pot,” He finally said, making for the attic door in the hallway. Aaliyah’s yells in protest followed him the whole way.

Fallon sat down.


	17. Castiel

From the moment he discovered the origin of the plague outbreak, Castiel knew it would end in blood. 

The Chera had been a civilization built with an undying sense of cultural connection. Family was an essential part of their being. Their life force. They firmly believed that their way of life was the only way of life. Without their cultural significance, they were nothing. Stepping outside of that norm and engaging with those from other clans was the nearly the equivilance of, if not worse, than a sin. It was betrayal. Betrayal against their religion. Betrayal against their god’s. And, most importantly, betrayal against family. 

Of course, he had bit his tongue. During the hours of scouring through every piece of ancient text that Jaul had stored in his attic, he feigned ignorance. Early on, Jaul had voiced concerns about the possible outcomes of the curse extraction. Most of his concern fell to his daughter. It was a fair reason to be cautious.

‘More than likely, your daughter will not be harmed during the process,’ Castiel had said. He hoped his smile didn’t seem too forced. ‘She will walk away better than before.’

He was not lying.

He had observed the Chera empire for quite a time. They were a fascinating people. He could feel the pride and loyalty in their ways course through his existence as he looked on. Their way of worship stood out above others from the fifth century era. Everything, from their homes to their surprisingly advanced trade routes, intrigued him thoroughly. But most of all, what struck him most was their appreciation of the woman. To then, they were not mere household attendants and bearer of children. They were far more precious than that. An art form. Many operated small trading posts, conducted business affairs with men and women alike. They were given all the known freedoms that men have enjoyed since the creation of humanity itself. It was unheard of at this time. A near impossible thought to any other ancient civilization at the time. But, to the Chera, it was a natural way. The right way.

But it wasn’t until the sixth century that things began to change. The Chera were under constant attack by neighboring dynasties. Their forces were beginning to deplete. The battles proved disastrous for the male population. Thousands lost their lives during the wars. They were advanced in many ways of life, but strategic war was not one of them. The fact of the matter was this: the Chera were becoming extinct. And so, the Chera rulers implemented a new law: Women would be constrained to marrying within the Chera line. 

This, of course, proved to be unraveling in itself. The Chera women were not accustomed to being given restrictions on their way of life. While it was quite common to marry distant cousins and relatives, it became a problem when fourth cousins turned to twin brothers and fathers. Tensions rose in the cities. And while joining forces against the rulers was not an option, the women did the next best thing.

They rebelled. 

Foreign dynasties began to overtake many cities once under Chera rule. Soldiers from faraway lands began to settle in their homes, take over their trade routes. To the Chera men, they were pigs with a misguided sense of direction. Outcasts to their society. But to the Chera women, they were something new. Someone outside of their family line. Castiel witnessed more marriages done in dark caves and deep trenches than he had ever seen during his existence. Multi-cultural babies were birthed from all types of backgrounds. The Chera ruler at the time, Yanaikatchai Mantaran Cheral Irumporai, was losing control. Soon, the land that countless men had fought to protect would be destroyed. Death was not a fear for their culture. It would not speak enough volume to simply slaughter those who disobeyed. What could be worse than dying yourself? 

Watching your children suffer.

It was the most devastating fate. To watch your loved one’s deteriorate right before your very eyes. It was enough to drive someone insane. To wish it were them instead. To feel the anguish and the loss and want nothing more than to be numb to it all. That was the ultimate punishment. Kithamengo was the solution. And it became so. 

Cas knew what the outcome would be. Aaliyah Jabbour would live after today. Healthy and free of the curse. She would never bring harm to another innocent again. 

Jaul Jabbour would not. 

The ingredients themselves were easy enough to collect. Honey beer and sugar cane beer were both sold locally at the downtown market. Medjool dates are a common staple for Moroccan dishes and Jaul had plenty hidden away in his kitchen cabinets. The cooking pot was cleaned and prepared. The grandfather clock in the living room announced the fourth hour while Jaul prepared the dates. Sundown wouldn’t come for another hour and a half. Sam had taken to Dean’s side after the ritual had been translated while Aaliyah stared at the front door. Fallon, on the other hand, hadn’t moved from the kitchen table for the better part of two hours. 

Cas had never read Fallon’s thoughts. There was a decent possibility that he never would. But he could still feel emotion. Call it a sixth sense. Human emotions are like scents to an angel. Fear. Aggression. Pain. Regret. It poured off of the human body and gave off a distinct flavor. Something that only angelic grace could detect. The air around Fallon was bitter, not quite sour but most definitely dense. A sense of longing dripped from her pores and pulled every molecule down around her. Grief.

He didn’t say anything at first. He sat across from her and watched her eyes burn holes through the table. They moved slightly like she was watching something play out in front of her. She was biting the inside of her lip. He tilted his head.

“You need something or you just gonna stare,” Her eyes didn’t leave the table. 

Cas took a breath. “I wanted to make sure you were doing alright.”

“Peachy,” She gave some sort of an attempt at a fake smile. 

“I think we both know that is no the truth.”

“I-“ She smacked her lips together and shook her head. When she spoke again it was a harsh whisper. “We’re signing this guy’s death warrant over here. He don’t weigh more than a buck fifty after Thanksgiving dinner.”

Cas was quiet. He folded his hands on the table top and studied the lines in his fingers.

“Four pints is half his body weight. He’ll be nothing but a beached whale by the time we get three out of him.”

“We don’t know that.”

“You bullshit my friends and I’ll bullshit yours,” she wagged her finger in between them. “But let’s not bullshit each other.” 

Cas stole a glance at the living room. Sam was leaned over his own lap, his forehead pressed into his hands over the long couch. His hair hung like tiny wires over his face. “It’s the only way.”

“For fucks sake,” She ripped the bandana off the top of her head and slapped it down onto the table. Sam’s head lifted from his hands. Jaul’s knife stopped. She traded looks with all three of them and shoved her chair from the table. “I’m getting some air,” She left the crimson headband and made a clumsy escape to the front door. 

His ran his hand through his hair then found his jaw. He thought about his time before the Winchester’s when he first arrived to Earth. What he would have felt, what he would have done in this situation. Jaul’s death would have meant nothing to him. He might have done it himself, had he been given the opportunity. Removal of the curse was first priority. But now, after so much time on Earth, he had become remarkably more… human. Even more so in the last year alone. ‘You’re a peculiar thing, aren’t you?’ Lucifer had stated over that holy fire circle, the night Jo and Ellen had suffered a meaningless death. Such simple words to carry with him. But despite everything that had ever been said about him, nothing defined him more. 

“Are you really an angel?” Cas opened his eyes and was greeted by Aaliyah’s thin features. She was built nearly identical to her father. 

“Yes.”

“Like, a warrior of heaven or whatever?”

Cas couldn’t help but chuckle. “Yes, a warrior of heaven. Or whatever.”

“Well, then why is all of this even an issue? Can’t you just call on God to take the curse away and be done with it?”

“If the curse had been called upon by forces of Heaven, it would be as simple as that,” Cas leaned over the table. “My grace is ineffective against rituals and entities that are influenced by other factors. The Kithamengo curse is made of old Moroccan magic. Something that Heaven has no control over.”

“Look, I’m not stupid. I know how this will probably end. I know that-“ Her lips twisted and her nostrils flared. Her knuckles turned white in her fist. “Please tell me there’s a way to keep him alive. At least until we can get him to a hospital.”

Aaliyah’s brain screamed her thoughts at him. Memories. A woman with deep set laugh lines and long black hair. She sat at the head of the kitchen table, putting every ounce of concentration into the sketchbook in front of her. Her pencil was like water flowing through a stream, gliding and curving with ease along the canvas. Her smile lit up the room. ‘ _ Habibi,  _ come here. I have something to show you,’ When Aaliyah entered the room the woman turned the pad toward her. A photographic quality portrait of the teen stared back. A few pencil shavings were the only indication that it had been a pencil drawing. ‘What do you think?’

‘Mother, it’s beautiful,’ Castiel could feel Aaliyah's pride as though he had been feeling it himself. Her fingers reached for the notebook and gripped it firmly, turning the drawing ever which way. ‘Radiant. Flawless. I don’t think words could do this justice.’

‘It will never be as radiant as the woman it is based off,  _ ya helo.’  _

Castiel's nostrils flared. The scent was sharp, prickly, even. Heavy and light at the same time. It left a sour taste on its way into his essence. Pain.

“Tell me about your mother.”

Aaliyah had not been expecting his question. Her eyebrows pushed together. “My mother?”

Cas nodded.

“How is that gonna solve anything? We can’t bring her back.”

“No,” Cas said. “But you can give her life through your thoughts. Through the stories that you tell.”

The wood backing of her chair screeched when she sat back. “My mother… was beautiful. Kind. The backbone of this family,” She scoffed. “She made living…easier. For all of us. My father included.”

“What did your mother enjoy most?”

Aaliyah’s face brightened a hair. “I have never seen someone draw as well as my mother. I swear, she was Leonardo DaVinci’s cousin or something.”

“Did you save her portfolio’s?”

“Of course.”

“I’d like to see them,” Cas cleared his throat. “If you’re comfortable sharing.”

The wall held her attention for a moment. The nod came after. “I’ll go find them.”

Cas counted the next hour in page turns. Drawing after drawing he listened to Aaliyah describe each one. The type of day it had been. How she was feeling. Her childhood was written in each stroke of lead, every shade and contrast on the page. She had everything committed to memory, down to the color outfit her mother had been wearing while she drew it. They smiled. They laughed. A few tears slid from Aaliyah’s eyes and littered the page. But that sour bite in the air had faded into something sweeter. Aaliyah’s life was anything but warm. Her future suffered a similar fate. But at least for that hour of remembrances and art she was able to feel something besides the anguish. The grief. 

“The sun is nearing the horizon,” Jaul stood in the kitchen doorway. The cooking pot was tucked under his wiry arm and his lips in a thin line. The smile Aaliyah had been wearing through a memory of her mother fell like the ash on Pompeii. She let the notebook of drawings fall closed.

“Dean? Dean,” Sam was speaking in a panic over the long couch, his knees leaned against the cushions while he held his brother’s face in his hands. “I can barely get a pulse. I don’t even think he’s breathing,” Fallon stared at him over Sam’s shoulder with empty eyes. 

“We are out of time,” Cas jumped from his chair with such force the table skittered back. “We will have to perform the ceremony now.”

“Will it work?” Sam asked. He spoke through his teeth. 

“The book did not specify at what stage of sundown the ceremony must take place,” Cas grabbed the text and followed behind Jaul toward the backdoor. He flipped to the page while they stepped outside for the first time in almost twenty-four hours. It was nothing but tall weeds bending in the breeze and a few trees in the distance. Not even a picket fence to dictate which part of the land belonged to who. Just a rusted pickup truck halfway hidden in the grass. He stayed in time with Jaul until he came to a sudden stop a few hundred feet from the scrap metal. 

“Here,” He nestled the bowl into the weeds. Jaul dug his knees into the dirt and sat back on his calves. Cas watched his back expand and decompress with every slow breath he took. The wooden cross painted with white blinked back at him through the red haze between the clouds. “The curse ends here.”

“Father,” The grass crunched behind them. Aaliyah crashed into Cas’ shoulder as she sunk to a crouch beside him. A skyscraper being pulled from the sky. “Please. You can’t do this.”

Fallon stood next to the truck. The crutches lay abandoned in the field. Her eyes glistened in the fading light. 

Jaul looked to his daughter and took her face in his hands, callused after years of maintenance on the home they had shared. His thumbs stopped her tears in their tracks and wiped them away. He smiled. “I have to do this,  _ habibi.” _

“I’ll live with the curse if it means you’ll stop this,” Aaliyah sobbed. “I’ll never leave the house again. I’ll never think another bad thought. I’m sorry for being a bad daughter. Just, please,” Her voice was a croak in her throat. “Please don’t leave me.”

“You were never a bad daughter,” He brought her close and pressed his cracked lips to her forehead. Her small fingers clung to his. “Never think that for a moment. You have hurt for so long. Endured so much suffering. That in itself has felt like dying,” Cas shifted in the grass and tore his eyes away from the moment. “I do this for you, Aaliyah.  _ Ya rouhi. _ ”

“No. I won’t let you,” She shouted her words at him. Sharp echoes that cracked the earth beneath their feet. She gripped his arm with such force he thought his bones might snap. “This is madness. There has to be another way.”

“I’m sorry, Aaliyah,” He looked to Cas. A silent plea. Cas understood. “Everything I’ve done; I do for you.”

She fought from Cas’ hold. Thrashed and squirmed and called out every word amounting to protest. But a human teen was no match for angelic strength. He moved her like a child carrying their china doll through the grass and stopped somewhere close to the truck. He half expected some type of help in the form of Fallon, but her crossed arms and distant stare told a different story. Then Jaul began to speak.

He spoke quiet. As if he were speaking to a close friend. But the Sanskrit type he echoed from the Chera text were read with conviction. Purpose. With every line of text his voice grew louder alongside Aaliyah. Cas could smell every emotion. Every memory. Every molecule landed on his tongue and he could taste the fear. But no amount of emotion could mask the sharp stench of crimson iron that wafted through the light breeze. Faint traces of a blade slicing deep into muscle pricked his ears. He turned Aaliyah’s thrashing body in the direction of their home. 

Cas was used to seeing humans sacrifice for one another. The Winchester’s did so on a regular basis. Spilled blood in their name. Cut down all that threatened the other. Cas would gladly do the same. Even for Mary, who Cas did not share as much history with as he did with her sons. But she was their mother. She had brought them into this world and, in turn, gave the world a fighting chance. Mary Winchester was as much family as Dean and Sam were his brothers.

He had never personally known John Winchester. There were stories, of course. Tales of the ‘great John Winchester’ and his useless parenting methods. He had not been a practical father. One might argue he had not been a father at all. Cas considered him the latter. Neglect was a way of life both Sam and Dean had learned at a young age. A child was forced to take care and raise another child. John Winchester was no upstanding figure in their lives.

However, in the end, he brought about his own end to save his sons a similar fate. Pulled into the dirt and down below to face an evil even greater than his own. And what began as a tragic end for Dean Winchester became the start of something much larger than neither brother had ever dreamed possible. And it all began with a father’s sacrifice.

“He’s dying!” Aaliyah screamed. She snuck a peak around his arm before he used a bit of grace to hold her still. He wondered if the neighbors would come out to investigate. “Do something! Anything! Don’t just fucking stand here and watch!”

It had to end in blood.

Five minutes passed. Cas estimated that Jaul had lost two pints of blood at this point. The wound would be deep. Jaul did not seem like a man that would ‘half-ass’ something as monumental as his daughter’s life. By the seventh minute he was beginning to slouch in the dirt. After ten he was fighting to keep his nose from entering the cooking pot. Around three and a half pints and twelve minutes later, Cas could no longer hear his heart beat in the still of the air. By minute thirteen Aaliyah had stopped resisting but was instead vibrating under his hold, her soul’s energy undergoing metamorphosis right before his eyes. Her screams of anguish had morphed into broken sobs. It was both beautiful and agonizing all at once. Claudio Abbado’s final orchestration of Mahler’s Symphony No. 9. 

She squirmed one final time. But it was not to run to her father as he had thought. Her arms found his torso beneath the flaps of his overcoat and squeezed with hidden strength. Her face pressed firmly against his chest, her tears soaking his white button up within mere moments. He held close, partially to keep her upright and partially on instinct. He rested his hand against her head and attempted to push his grace through her. It ran with no hesitation. 

In the distance, Jaul’s back door was slammed against the outside of the house. Two figures emerged from the doorway, one walking with quick strides while the other sauntered slowly behind. 

“Cas,” Sam took in the scene before him. Aaliyah sobbing in Cas’ arms. Fallon staring with a clenched jaw at the sinking sun. A lifeless figure slumped in front of a white cross. He didn’t know where to look. Dean, on the other hand, could not tear his bloodshot eyes from the open field. “Is he…?”

Cas glanced over his shoulder. A few stocks of grass had freed themselves from under his body stained with red. Cas was able to heal those who were injured. But he was not able to bring the dead back to life. It was too late. Three minutes and seventeen seconds too late. The taste of blood that had found its way into his mouth through his nose was now heightened by the stench of something far more foul and sinister.

He met Dean’s stare and smoothed his hand over Aaliyah’s hair. “The curse has been lifted.” 

~~

The coroner did not look surprised when he pulled into the Jabbour’s driveway a half an hour later. The only hair the elderly man possessed was a grey moustache delicately carefully above his thin lips. “Better be the last time I come here in my lifetime,” was all he muttered on his way up the front steps, his young assistants a few steps behind him. His cane sounded dull against the rotting wood beneath him.

Suicide was the most logical explanation for Jaul’s passing. The setting it took place in was merely icing on the pastry. An open wrist. His wife’s ashes six feet beneath his knees. A bowl of their favorite dried dates before the cross with a book from their homeland beside him. They hardly needed to mention a thing to the coroner. He took one look at the pale bones wrapped in fabric and ordered him to be carried away. 

The last bits of sunset gave color to the tears staining Aaliyah’s cheeks as she watched the black car take her father away one last time. She stood alone with her bare feet in the grass, the wind brushing strands of tangled hair around her head and over her shoulders. The moon was beginning to rise. It brought an entire new light to the street stretched out before them.

Cas was the first to make his way beside her. She was still fixed on staring at the empty road when his shoes began to crunch in the grass.

“Are you sure you don’t want us to stay?”

A fresh tear escaped her eye. She slapped it away and sniffed. “No. I’ll be fine.”

“Aaliyah-”

“My friend’s on her way to get me. Bri. I’m staying with her so I don’t have to sit in this fucking house,” A few more tears. “I just can’t stay in this house anymore.”

Cas glanced up at the moon. It was full tonight. A second sun beamed down on them like a spotlight. The Chera believed the moon to be a sacred spirit. A wholesome goddess that brings joy and peace to those she blesses. “Do you have family you can go to?” 

“Wadia,” Sam had not been able to reach her since the day before. He kept that fact to himself. “Maybe some long lost cousins I’ve never met. But most of my family is in still in Morocco.”

“You mentioned earlier someone by the name of Aroof,” Cas looked at her from the corner of his eyes. “Is he not someone you could turn to?”

“Last time I checked, they don’t allow overnight guests at the psych ward.” 

Cas cleared his throat. “Of course. I understand.”

“I don’t even think he knows where he is,” She said. “Probably would think I was his dead brother and throw a chair at me.”

“He’s your uncle.”

Aaliyah nodded. “He came with us to America after Ricky died. We had to wait another month to come because his burns were too severe.”

“Burns?”

“From the fire. He was in the house when his brother died.” 

“Your father-” He kicked himself for mentioning him nearly an hour after his passing. “He recognized some strange sort of script we showed when we first spoke with him. He said that he tried to learn but never could.”

“Lucifer’s Tongue,“ Aaliyah whispered. Cas’ head snapped at attention. “That’s the name my father gave it. I don’t know if that’s what it actually is.”

“I do not recognize the writing.”

“I don’t know anything about it.” She sniffed and jumped from foot to foot. “If you wanna know more, you’ll have to ask Aroof yourself. It’s all he mutters about, anyway.”

“Where can I find him?”

“Mental facility in the south side of Philadelphia.” 

Cas sighed. “Aaliyah, what happened back there-“

“Another time,” She gave a firm nod. “For now, I’d like that all to stay in the backyard next to my mom.”

Cas knew of every possible candidate for a Prophet that would ever come into existence. He had observed every walk of life, every human’s history, since the dawn of time. Every great leader, every small pawn before his descent to earth, Cas knew. Aaliyah was not one of those Prophets. He did not know her history. But it didn’t take a celestial force to know she was going to become something great. “I’m sorry.” 

“I know,” Her lips pulled into a thin line that could hardly be considered a smile before she spun on her heels. She nearly ran Fallon over on her way to the house. She leaned mostly on her right crutch with her face set in stone. 

“You good?” Fallon asked.

“Yeah, great. My father’s as dead as my mom and now I’m fucking alone.”

Fallon nodded. But something glistened in her eye. Something her emotionless mask couldn’t hide. She reached her hand into the breast pocket of her t-shirt and produced a slip of paper. She held it out toward Aaliyah. “Don’t lose this,” Fallon’s nostrils flared. “I ain’t writing it down twice.”

Aaliyah stared at it for a minute before reaching for it with careful fingers. Fallon released it before she could grab it. It almost dropped to the dirt. 

“You understand me?” 

“Yeah,” Aaliyah opened the piece of paper and folded it closed again, nodding with fierce vigor. “Yeah, I do.”

“Well, alrighty then,” Fallon crutched past them without another word. They watched her fade into the growing darkness enveloping the driveway.

Cas did not mention his findings involving Aroof during the drive home. The car was thick with disappointment, paired nicely with regret and just a bit of something a little denser. It carried into the bunker and hovered over them like a thick blanket during the winter time. Fallon chased Dean down the hallway to their respective bedrooms. Sam changed into his athletic attire and went for a ‘de-stress run.’ A tense silence had fallen over the bunker. Cas removed a few books from the library shelves and settled into his usual seat at the head of the oak table. Aroof could wait until tomorrow. 

Hours passed. In the early morning, Cas rose from his seat for the first time and replaced the books back in their respective places. The bunker door always seemed to shut so loudly, even with the gentle care taken to reduce the noise. The sun was hardly a thought within the stars twinkling overhead. He let his gaze roam over each one, their unique burn and dim presence against the moon’s glow. It wasn’t too long ago that he stared up at the sky, watching thousands of his brothers and sisters fall from heaven following Metatron’s betrayal. A dull pain radiated from his chest and forced his breathing to stutter. He began his journey along the road.

He had never partaken in the morning ritual before. For many months he simply sat in one place, staring at the wall and tuning in to heaven’s chatter throughout the night. There had been times he would do nothing but sit and stare at nothing in particular. It wasn’t until everything he had ever known came crashing down that he began to crave movement. Distraction. Anything to keep him from being consumed by it all. He no longer had the ability to fly wherever he chose. Driving was the same as sitting. So, walking it became. 

Lebanon was fairly quiet during the early spring mornings. Most of the crops had already been planted and merely required water throughout the day. Corn fields. Rice. Vineyards. During the summer Cas was accustomed to waving at the plowers that passed him by, even going as far as making small talk with a few of the local vineyard farmers that put in their hours before the sun rose. But that would not come for another few months. For now, he was alone.

He continued for a few more miles. Past the farms and the cattle until Lebanon was nothing but a small blip in the distance. He took a left down a gravel road and skirted between a rusted guard rail. The ‘No Trespassing’ sign always made him smile just a bit. ‘A rebel angel,’ he’d been called countless times. Even after being cast from heaven it seemed he could not escape his nature. His feet carried him through the forest clearing and down a path created by his own footprints, the sound of rushing water growing louder with every step he took. He came to a stop when the toe of his shoes threatened to touch the water’s edge.

There were no threats here. No chance of anyone stumbling onto his whereabouts. He was the only person that knew this place existed. This small paradise. This moment of peace. This. This was his moment. He watched the moon’s reflection ripple over the small waves caressing each stone in the embankment, leaving not a single rock untouched. A thousand stones could be cast into the water and the waves would still find every one. Cas turned his head up toward the sky once again and closed his eyes.

And he prayed.


	18. Castiel

Sam was seated at the table when Cas returned from a morning walk four days later, his eyes trained firmly on a thin booklet over the keys of his laptop. When the bunker door slid closed Sam’s head shot up immediately as if a gun had been discharged. He cleared his throat and fumbled with the papers before shoving them underneath his laptop. “Morning, Cas,” He nodded his greeting. Cas narrowed his eyes.

“Sam,” Cas made a pointed stare at the multi-colored pages poorly hidden under the device. “What are you reading?”

“Looking for leads on the Ark. Figured I’d get a head start since I went for a run last night.”

“I see,” Cas pointed to the computer. “And how is that going so far?”

“It’s…” Sam looked at the black screen. The computer was cold. “…Going fine. Just waiting for the hard drive to re-boot,” He jabbed his thumb onto the power button. “Just needs a little wake up call, is all.”

“Sam,” Cas sat adjacent to him at the head of the table. “How long have we known each other?”

A smile hinted on his lips and he scoffed. “Feels like a lifetime.” 

“And how many times have we put our existence on the line for one another?”

The words carried more meaning than were spoken. Sam sniffed. “Dozens,” He nodded. “Maybe hundreds.”

“Do you trust me?”

“Without a doubt. Cas, what’s this about?”

“Then why do you not trust me with something as small a pamphlet?” 

His hair blew from side to side when he shook his head. “It’s not- Look, It’s not like that,” The booklet was slid out from under the laptop and handed to him. Cas studied the words as the colors jumped out at him.

“’Kansas State University,’” He read aloud before looking to Sam for clarification. “This is a school.”

“Out of Manhattan.”

“They have a school named Kansas in New York?”

“Manhattan, Kansas,” Sam said. “Two hours away. I only have two more semesters to finish my degree. I could take a few classes on campus and the rest online. Finish what I started.”

“Sam-“

“I could even switch to political science. Maybe liberal studies, I don’t know. The school’s law program isn’t like Stanford, but it’s a start-“

“Sam-“

“And once I get my bachelor’s maybe I could start my masters. I mean, might as well, you know? I think there’s a few good programs on the east coast-“

“Sam,” Cas brought Sam back to Earth. “I think this is a great idea.”

His entire face relaxed. Every amount of tension left in a rush to be free from his cheeks. “You think?”

“Yes,” Cas flipped a few pages in the booklet. “But, Sam, what’s bringing all of this on?”

Sam’s cheeks dimpled. “What do you mean?”

“A few weeks ago you ask me about Jessica. Now college,” Cas slid the booklet onto the table. “You have never mentioned these things before.”

“I know.”

“Then why now?”

“I think I’m just-“ He swallowed. “We’ve been hunting for our entire life. As long as I can remember. The family business.” Cas chuckled and Sam continued. “I’m turning 36 this year. Basically forty. Dean’s already there. And I just feel like…” He hung his head toward his lap and scoffed. “I sound ridiculous, huh?”

“If it makes you feel any better, I am nearing two million years old.”

“You guys count birthdays up there?”

“Not quite,” Cas shrugged. “It’s just a guesstimate.” 

Sam smiled. It was small, but it was a start. “Do you remember your first mid-life crisis?”

“I think,” Cas adjusted himself in his chair. “I think I am still living mine.”

Sam tiled his head and went to speak before another door slammed shut somewhere close by. A few distant footsteps later and Fallon’s blonde head appeared. Her phone was pressed to her ear with grease-stained fingers. But something was missing. Cas’ eyes grew wide.

Her cast was gone.

“Yeah, well, last time I checked that ‘I-O-U’ I put in your name was for shocks, not a cross-country chase,” The crutches she’d been reduced to were nowhere in sight. Her worn boots were pulled snug over both feet and her limp a bit more exaggerated than the day they had first met. She made her way to the table and snapped her fingers at Sam. “Hey, Fabio, you got that computer there fired up an’ ready?”

“Fallon,” Sam didn’t take her eyes off her leg. “Where’s your cast?”

“Got no idea what you’re talking about,” She came up on his other side and collapsed into an empty chair. “Get this thing geared up, I gotta track something.”

“Your ankle was nowhere near ready to be removed from that cast,” Cas leaned over the table toward her. “You are risking further injury and improper healing-“

“Less talk, more tech,” She waved her hand over the computer and spoke into the phone. “Hold on, Paul, I’m shacking up with a bunch of rubes over here.”

Sam’s lips moved to protest but nothing came out. His eyes rolled. “Fine,” He typed the password into his laptop. “What am I tracking?”

Fallon held up a stained finger before setting the phone down onto the table. She pressed a few buttons until the speaker began to crackle from breathing. “Alright, Walker, you’re on speaker.”

‘Do you have to call me that?’ A male’s voice sighed on the other line. ‘C’mon, can’t disrespect the legend himself.’

“I got nothing but love for our fallen father. Now, tell Sam here what you need from him.”

Sam raised a brow at Fallon before leaning toward her phone. “Uh, hi, Paul.”

‘Hey.’ He was gruff in tone. ‘I need a phone traced.’

Sam clicked a few buttons on his computer until a program opened. “Alright. Should I ask?”

‘I’m sure Fallon will fill you in the second I get off the line.’

“Wouldn’t count on it,” Fallon smirked. 

‘You know, you weren’t this annoying back in high school,’ He read off the phone number to Sam and he started a trace. ‘Phone’s been off for six months but I finally got a few rings ten minutes ago.’

“I got it,” Sam read off the coordinates.

‘Where the hell’s that?’ Paul asked. ‘Somewhere in Mexico?’

“Sonora Desert,” Cas said. Sam and Fallon looked at him as if he’d revealed his true form. “Near the Arizona-California border.”

“Guess that ain’t that much of a stretch from Folsom Prison,” Fallon said. “But I’d think about putting a leash on that little brother of yours.”

‘Slap one on him and I’ll pay you back on delivery.’

“You really expect me to haul my Ford to the coast and hunt down your crack-slinging brother?”

‘I didn’t call to chit-chat, that’s for sure.’

Fallon’s head fell behind her back over her chair. A groan left her throat. “You really think this is it?”

‘You owe me, Fallon. Big time. I’m calling it in.’

“Alright,” She slapped her thighs and grabbed her phone. “I’ll head out in a bit. Call you when I know something.”

‘I got my ringer on.’

The line clicked. Fallon rubbed her eyes. “Jesus, it never ends, does it.”

“Could you guys be any louder?” Dean came stumbling in with his eyes half closed. His t-shirt was twisted in knots around his torso. “We having a dinner party in here or what?”

“Whatever y’all are doing, it ain’t gonna involve me,” Fallon pushed herself up and shoved her phone into her pocket. “I’ll be back in a few days.”

“Where do you think you’re going?” Dean’s eyes widened when he saw her leg. “And what the hell happened to your cast?”

“We need to focus on the Ark,” Cas stood up with her. He had planned on making it a bit more flowery, but it was now or never. “Aaliyah told me of an uncle who more than likely knows about the written language from the notebook.”

Sam raised his eyebrows. “Wait, really?”

“And you didn’t say anything four days ago because…?” Dean leaned against the back of a chair.

“I thought it would be better to wait until you were rested from the Checotah case.”

Fallon was halfway down the hallway to her bedroom without another word. Cas watched her walk, the heel of her boots scraping lightly against the bunker floor. An off-beat rhythm of tap shoes in an elderly musical. The bones in her ankle were in no way healed. They would likely never heal properly after this. Cas shook his head. 

In the meantime, Cas filled the brothers in on his discovery. Aroof’s involvement with his brother’s death. His residence in a psychiatric facility. The fire. Aroof may have not been the one to cause the tragedy, but he was a witness to whatever – or whoever – did. Aaliyah’s uncle may hold the key to the Ark’s whereabouts or, better yet, what exactly it wanted from Fallon. The missing pieces may just lie inside of a broken man’s brain.

They were working on a plan of action when Fallon returned in a new T-shirt and her duffle bag slung over her shoulder. A set of keys were dangling in her now-clean fingers. She gave a curt nod as way of goodbye on her way toward the garage.

“Woah, where do you think you’re going?” Dean asked. 

“Paul called in a favor,” Fallon’s jaw was set firm. Her eyes matched. “And I repay my debts.” 

“Alright, well, you aren’t going alone. Someone’ll have to tag along.”

“And why in the devil’s hell not? I’m damn near 30 years old. I’ve trekked alone for a long time before y’all showed up.”

“Yeah, ‘cause you running off last time worked out so well.”

“Sticks and stones,” She waved over her shoulder as she started away again. “You got no say in what I do.”

“You’re not going alone,” Dean pinched the bridge of his nose. 

“Go fuck yourself,” She sang.

“Cas,” Sam said. Cas’ grace warmed his fingers as he held his hand out toward her. There wasn’t a trace of resistance. The keys soared through thin air and settled in his palm. Her face went from shock to disgust in a matter of seconds. 

“Give me my keys,” He didn’t think her voice could get any deeper. It did. 

“How about this,” Sam patted Cas on the shoulder as if he were apologizing. “Dean and I will head to Philadelphia. Check out the hospital where Aroof’s staying. And you take Cas.”

Fallon scoffed. “I don’t need a babysitter.”

“Well, then, I hope you like walking,” Dean said. “’Cause we aren’t giving you those keys unless there’s someone riding shotgun in that truck.”

Fallon’s entire face turned red. It started in her cheeks and spread to her forehead, down her neck. Her freckles had all but disappeared. Her nostrils grew two sizes larger. “Fine.” It was more of a growl than a spoken word. Her boots spun on their heels and clomped out of the main room. For a thirty-year-old woman, Fallon had the temper of a testy high school student.

“Let’s go, Blackbird, I don’t got all day,” Fallon called. Cas glanced over his shoulder on his way out. They both gave joking waves and snickered under their breath. 

He should have made Dean go.

~~

Twenty-one hours. Twenty-one long, tense hours beside a woman that had it out for the entire world. Maybe something would give, he had thought before they left. Maybe after a few hundred miles down the road she’d open up just a bit and make it easier for both of them.

That was not the case.

Apparently, Fallon had rules. Laws to abide by within her truck. If anyone broke a single one they were ‘flat on their ass, period.’ Anyone riding alongside her was subject to them. And the list of people that had accompanied her on trips in her truck was a short one. Three people short. 

Rule one was simple enough: There was to be no complaining about the way she drove. ‘Bitch-seat driving,’ was what she called it. Fallon had grown up driving this truck. Her jeans were faded in the same pattern as the cracks in the bench seat’s leather. The truck moved like she moved. There was absolutely no one that knew how her Ford ran like she did. Disrespecting the truck was disrespecting her. And she was not one to take being insulted lightly. Therefore, there was no complaining allowed.

Rule two intrigued him more than anything: anything closed was to remain closed. The glove box. The ash tray behind the shift stick. The tool box in the bed of the truck. It was closed for a reason. If she knew something had been opened or looked through, the rider was out. No ifs, ands, or buts about it. 

Above all, though, was rule three: only country. It didn’t matter if they were in Los Angeles or the middle of the Pacific Ocean. If the station they were listening to ran out of range they would find another one. If there wasn’t a country western station available, she’d plug her phone into the cassette tape cable and listen to that. If her phone didn’t have service, they’d listen to nothing. No jazz. No slow rock. And absolutely nothing remotely similar to pop of any kind. If she heard even one mili-second of ‘Justin Belieber’s’ on the speakers she’d have the passenger seat thrown out the window and doused in gasoline with a match to go with it. 

No whining, no prying, only country. 

They only pulled off the road when absolutely necessary and spoke a total of seventeen words. Simple phrases. A few-word questions. ‘Need gas.’ ‘Starving.’ ‘Rest my eyes.’ He’d made the mistake of offering to drive at one point. “You drive stick?” She’d asked on a stretch of highway under an Arizona sunset. He didn’t. “That’s what I thought.” He didn’t ask again.

The morning was hardly a thought when they stopped at a diner just outside of the Sonora Desert. Fallon ordered pancakes and a black coffee. Cas ordered a water. “The location of the coordinates is not far. Maybe twenty miles.”

“Don’t make any sense,” Fallon chased a bite of pancake down with a swallow of coffee. “There a town out there or something?”

“I believe this is the only town in this area.”

“Great,” She shoved a fork full of food into her mouth. Her teeth grazed against the metal prongs. “Probably face down in a ditch somewhere with his phone up his ass.”

“Do you know what he looks like?”

“Used to,” Fallon said. “Long time ago. Before he ran outta town and started dealing hot syrup in the California streets.”

“Syrup?” Cas tilted his head.

“Heroine,” Fallon poured her own hot syrup onto her pancakes. “Was a bigger kid. Built tough like his pa used to be. But now I’m guessing he’s lost a few pounds from his time at Folsom.” 

He shifted in the bench seat. “Is there anything else I should know about him?”

“All you need to know,” The line of Fallon’s throat jumped as she swallowed. “Is that we’re delivering that rat-bastard right onto Walker’s porch step no matter what. Whether he be sitting in the cab next to us or wrapped in a sheet with the toolbox, don’t matter. Shit needs to get taken care of up north and I bet you he’s doing nothing but wallowing like a greased pig in the sand dunes.”

Wallowing was an understatement.

The coordinates were, in fact, the location of a city. A city unlike anything he had ever seen. But a city nonetheless. The cement signs were painted with the words ‘Slab City.’ Trailers littered the sand covered with ratted blankets and vibrant fabrics. Strange sculptures of varying degree stood tall along the road. A man stood outside of his tent and stared as they passed. In the early morning light Cas noticed he was not wearing a shirt. Or pants. He jerked his head forward and stared at the road ahead.

“What the fuck is this place,” Fallon whipped her head back and forth like she didn’t know where to look. Pieces of wood and metal leaned up against one another to create make-shift buildings, shelters from the intense desert heat. Slab City. Cas stared at one in particular, a multi-colored shack stacked beneath the limbs of a weathered tree with a collection of chairs in front of it. A large wooden pallet with down-turned hand stood tall at its side. Inside, a light flickered on through one of the vibrant blankets. 

Fallon brought the truck to a stop in front of the only building that appeared substantial. A children’s slide curved against a piece of metal. ‘Slab City Internet Café’ was written in blue paint. Their footsteps seemed to crunch twice as loud through the sand grains in the still morning air. 

A small motor home ran parallel to the ram-shackled building, a few fabrics strung between serving as an overhang for an outdoor sitting area. A stack of plastic crates and molded pallets served as a half-wall separating the patio area from the outside world. Not a soul was to be found in the chaos of chairs in the dirt. “They must be closed,” Cas said. 

“Guess you didn’t check the website,” The trailer door swung open and revealed a tower of a man in the doorway. His ash-grey hair fell at the letters of his ‘Harley Davidson’ T-shirt. When he stepped down, the entire trailer shook. “Tourists come when the suns up with given permission. Anytime else is askin’ to get shot.”

“We’re looking for someone,” Fallon nodded over the crates. He stepped up on the other side. Cas’ hair hardly met his circle beard. “Goes by ‘Big Bones.’”

“Like I said, gotta have permission to stomp around here,” The burly man said. Cas felt his skin crawl under his overcoat. He felt around until he gripped the handle of his angel blade. “Campsites are full and we don’t have time to make room.”

“We’re not looking to stay.”

“And I’m not gonna repeat myself.” 

“Simmer down, Roundhouse,” A fourth voice slurred from behind them. Cas glanced over his shoulder. A figure shadowed by the dim sunrise sauntered toward them one foot in front of the other, her hair pillowed like a bush over her shoulders. A click from her lighter and a flame danced from the metal as she brought it to her mouth and burned the end of the rolled paper dangling from her lips. The burnt end cast a low glow over every wrinkle and crease that framed her face. Her lungs filled with the smoke and left as she spoke. “No need to get all worked up before the sun rises.”

“We got one law ‘round here and they broke it. Far as I’m concerned that constitutes getting worked up.”

The smoke from her lips wafted toward Cas. It smelled of a skunk but sweeter with a bit of a kick. “I thought your doctor told you to stop stressing about the small stuff.”

‘Roundhouse’ sighed. “C’mon, Momma, get on home and let me deal with this.”

“No need,” She said. “I’ll sponsor them.”

“Oh, for Christ sakes, Momma- “

“Sponsor us?” Fallon shrunk her head back from her neck. “The hell’s that supposed to mean?”

Her smile was identical to a chizard cat, a full-tooth grin that curled at the ends and stretched for miles. “Whatever you want it to mean, honey,” She wrapped her lips around the paper and beckoned them with a long finger. “Come.” 

The woman – Momma Lotus, they learned – was anything but ordinary. As slender as the tree branches that swayed above them and as complex as the roots that ran beneath. Everything she did was languid and slow like time had slowed down. Her breathing. Her movement. Her speech. It was all done in a relaxed and care-free state of being. Although it was easy to gather why. Marijuana seemed to be more of an accessory to her rather than a recreational activity. 

She claimed to be a psychic from Seattle, using the seclusion and the raw energy from the desert sand as a natural enhancement of her abilities. Her distaste for the way modern society lived played a mild factor, as well. Too many rules for little protection, she said. Slab City offered the best of both worlds. She was able to practice what she believed, smoke what she wanted, and act how she pleased. As was all who took residence in the community.

Fallon, of course, was skeptical. She scoffed and rolled her eyes and muttered her objections under her breath. But Momma Lotus was patient. A trait many that encountered Fallon quickly lost sight of the moment she opened her mouth.

“I have to say, I’m surprised to see you so resistant,” She brought her clay bowl to her lips and sipped the steaming broth sloshing inside. She referred to it as ‘Lotus soup.’ Her bowl ended up being filled with their servings, as well. “All you’ve done, all you’ve seen. And yet you cannot believe the energy in front of you.”

“You don’t know what I’ve seen,” Beads of sweat were forming on Fallon’s forehead from the desert sun. The hairs at the nape of her neck clung to her skin. 

“Ah, but I do,” Momma Lotus set the bowl into the sand and adjusted her legs from their crossed position on her blanket. The sun glistened like galaxies off of each of the rings filling her fingers. “Your search for a man of your past brought you to our humble city. You know him as ‘Big Bones.’ Here, he is ‘Homer.’”

A burst of air left Fallon’s lips. “As in ‘Homer Simpson’?” She shook her head. “Alright, whatever, you heard me telling Hell’s Angel’s reject over there about him. Doesn’t make you a fortune teller.”

“But that’s not everything you are searching for,” Momma Lotus closed her eyes, her palms turned up toward the sky from her knees. “The path you have traveled has been fraught with challenges. Trials that have tested your strength. But you will find what you seek. The chest will reveal itself in time.”

Cas leaned out from the back of the recliner he was sitting in and scooted to the very edge. “You know about the Ark.”

“What did you tell her, boy,” Fallon muttered from the chair next to him. 

“I knew you would come here,” When her eyes opened it was a slow blink. “Your angelic companion said nothing to me. I saw it,” She spoke the word ‘saw’ with an ‘r’ at the end. He squinted his eyes. 

“Bullshit,” Fallon shot up. “I’ve had enough of this crap. Let’s get the hell out of here.”

“Is that what you think your mother said before she left?” Momma Lotus called at Fallon’s back. Her boots skittered to a stop. “Or did you always know the real reason.”

The loose ponytail tied up in Fallon’s hair threatened to come undone when she snapped her head around. Flames licked her pupils. “You got no business speaking about my folks.”

“Your father was a good man, Fallon,” She rolled a joint as she spoke, the paper settled against her knee. “He did what he thought right.”

“Pa was a fool.” 

“Perhaps we are all the fool when we are in love,” Momma Lotus pressed the end of her rolled joint between her lips and struck her lighter. “Played by our own emotions to perform its bidding.” 

“Talking in riddles.” The dust kicked up underneath Fallon’s feet on her way toward the road. Cas stood up.

“Fallon,” He called. She didn’t turn around.

“You’ll find Homer on the edge of the city near East Jesus,” Momma Lotus’ words were smoke in the dusty air. It pillowed like its own cloud in a clear sky. “His camping trailer is... hard to miss. There’s a reason we call him what he is.”

Cas nodded. “Thank you.”

“Best hurry if you want to catch up with her.” She chuckled. “Something tells me she’s not one to slow down.”

Momma Lotus had been right. The one they called ‘Homer’ was extremely difficult to miss. Nearly half a mile from what was known as ‘East Jesus’ stood a lone trailer connected to an older pickup, just as the woman had explained. But it was not the truck that caught his attention, nor the camping trailer itself. It was the large painting covering the entirety of one side. The head of a strange yellow figure with his mouth open and a puddle of drool dripping from his lips. Beside him, a depiction of a pink donut half-eaten covered the remaining surface. Homer Simpson. He recognized it from the ‘culture lesson’ Metatron had given him so many years before. Fallon scoffed near his shoulder as they came upon it.

“That kid never grew up, did he?” She muttered. As if on cue, the trailer door swung open.

He was thin. That was the first thought that came to Cas’ mind. Thin and tall in height. Hardly any muscle peeking through the barely-white tank top he wore. And on every inch of his skin: tattoos. Hundreds of them. Varying in size and color. From his bare feet to the cut of his jaw, no patch of skin lay untouched from the ink. Even his face possessed a few:  _ proelium  _ was written in elegant script along his tightly-braided hairline. Struggle. And on his neck, plain as the noon time sun: the same cartoon portrait from the side of his trailer. He gazed out at the open desert with a beer can at his lips and a cigarette poised between his fingers. 

Fallon was suddenly as close to a sprint as her legs would handle. Speed-walking through the desert on a not-quite healed ankle with a chronic limp. It was almost laughable. She could easily be healed of all complications with a touch of his grace yet she insisted on suffering day after day. Sam had no issue turning for help. Dean, as stubborn as he was, resisted aid in the beginning but eventually came to accept it. But even then, it had never been to the extent that Fallon had taken it. It was as if she believed his grace would actually harm her rather than help her. 

Big Bones did not hear them approach immediately. The sun rising above the sand dunes was far more worthy of his attention than some steps in the dirt. His peace was shattered the moment Fallon’s drawl broke the air.

“Big Bones,” She called. His Adam’s apple stopped mid-bob in his throat. “Or ‘Homer,’ whatever. You’re a bitch to find.”

The beer can hit the dirt. 

“No fucking way,” His lip ring trembled. “That scorpion bite did more than I thought.”

“Could’ve. From what I saw, y’all don’t exactly have the surgeon general down the block.”

Homer stared down at them with deep blue saucers. “How did you- What-“

“Don’t matter,” Fallon said. “All that matters is that I’m hauling your ass back up north.”

He swallowed. A long, defined motion. “But-“

“Save it,” She crossed her arms. “Get your shit. We leave in ten.”

“Wait, wait, hold on,” The tip of his cigarette receded to his fingers. He hissed a curse under his breath and let it drop. “How the fuck did you find me out here?”

“Traced your phone. Your big brother got a few rings and acted quick.”

His lips moved around silent words. Cas could pin point the moment he pieced it together just by facial expression alone. “Damn it,” He whispered.

“Enough chit-chat. We’re running out of daylight.” 

Homer looked both Cas and Fallon up and down for a moment before nodding. “Alright, alright, give me a few minutes.” The door clattered shut and he disappeared. The trailer fell quiet. 

“He was very compliant,” Cas said.

Fallon crossed her arms. “Too compliant.”

Something clattered on the other side of the trailer. Cas heard footsteps. A cloud of dust kicked up around the trailer. Through the dust darted a tangle of colored limbs and a blur of dingy white. Homer.

“Hey!” Fallon took off on his heels to the north. Her sprint was nothing but. The bandana secured around her head shook free from the heap of blonde and landed unceremoniously in their trail. Cas stopped to pick it up. The material was coarse and thin and the tip of his finger slipped into a frayed tear.

Cas made it a habit to use his grace only when necessary. Healing. Small demonstrations among those he trusted. In dire situations, smiting of demons. Anything else was an abuse of his abilities. An unfair advantage among a community of average beings. But Fallon was not going to catch Homer. At this rate, he was unsure that Fallon would make it another five hundred feet before her ankle snapped beneath her. They were nearing an exceptionally large slab of painted wood before he sighed and released his grace from his fingers. The blue essence worked as some type of lasso that tightened around Homer’s ankles and resisted just enough. His limbs sprawled out into the dirt floor just in front of the structure.

“Got you, you piece of shit,” Fallon’s knees fell after him and her hands gripped his own behind his back. He would likely be cleaning dirt from his teeth for weeks after this. “Now, you gonna listen for once in your life and stop causing problems?”

Cas jogged over to offer help with Homer. But by the time he reached them, restraining the squatter was the last thing on Cas’ mind. The night black slab towered over him like a skyscraper, stretching toward the deep blue above and beyond. The paint all but blocked every amount of light that surrounded it. The type of darkness that existed before God created all that stood. It made the gold strokes against the paint that much more vibrant.

“I think we have larger problems to attend to,” Was all Cas could muster. Fallon glared at him before following his gaze. 

“Mother fucker,” Fallon muttered.

The language of Lucifer's Tongue shone down on them like a second sun.


End file.
